


You're Everything That A Big Bad Wolf Could Want

by ConniptionCrazy



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, And a crazy uncle, First Time, In which there are tributes, M/M, Telepathic Bond, actual wolves, sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-12
Updated: 2013-03-12
Packaged: 2017-12-05 01:32:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/717331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConniptionCrazy/pseuds/ConniptionCrazy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek Hale is the werewolf that lives up in Beacon Hills Preserve. He needs tribute every two months in exchange for not attacking the town. And this time? It's Stiles. But all is not as it seems...</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're Everything That A Big Bad Wolf Could Want

Stiles saw him around sometimes. Not like getting milk or anything- hell no. When he was driving to school in the morning, he’d catch a glimpse of black fur in the woods if he was alone on the road. Usually he just put it off as his ADHD trying to make something interesting pop up. Or sometimes it would be a pair of piercing blue eyes, looking between the trees. He never, ever saw any more than that, and what he did see was usually once or twice every three months, at most.  
  
They said he was a recluse, even for a wolf. Living all alone up in the woods and mountains and never coming down for anything. They said he visited other towns and was responsible for other disappearances and killings there, and the only reason Beacon Hills was safe was because they gave him tribute. They said only virgins would satisfy him, like something out of Grimm’s Fairy Tales. Stiles thought that was a little far-fetched (geddit?)- with the wolf came the human and vice versa, right? But even as the Sheriff’s son, what Stiles thought didn’t matter much.  
  
Sometimes the tributes came back, stumbling out of the woods terrified and confused with no recollection of what had happened to them. Sometimes they didn’t. Stiles tried not to think about what happened to the ones who never came back.  
  
Scott was babbling next to him about Allison again. Stiles was mostly tuning him out, concentrating on doodling on his paper. Economics- literally the most boring thing ever.  
  
“Are you even listening to me?” Scott questioned.  
  
“Mm-hm. You’re taking her out on Friday.” Stiles repeated what Scott just said.  
  
Truthfully, Stiles didn’t really care about Allison. She was cute and sweet and sometimes witty, but she was basically stealing his best friend. And her family were all Hunters. Stiles didn’t really like Hunters, as a rule. He’d still count her as a friend, though.  
  
“Derek Hale.” Stiles’ head shot up. “See? You’re not listening at all!” Scott accused. “Would you stop thinking about him for, like, five seconds?”  
  
Stiles glared. He looked down at his paper, covered in eyes. Wolf eyes.  
  
“I can’t help it. My dad’s going to the Council tonight to choose the next tribute.” Stiles kept his voice low. “I’m nervous.”  
  
The Council was made up of the Sheriff, the director of the Hospital, the Mayor, and all sorts of other important people Stiles really didn’t give a shit about. All he cared about was that his dad always came back from those meetings looking haggard and drawn. Stiles was making fried chicken tonight, to try and cheer him up. It only happened once every two months or so, but it still had a pretty big effect on his dad.  
  
“Lydia’s still in the hospital.” Scott mumbled, more subdued.  
  
Lydia had been chosen last time. Though whoever thought she was a virgin was dead wrong, but nevermind that. She’d come stumbling back out of the woods, oddly naked, with all sorts of dead leaves and twigs in her hair, terrified and confused. They’d admitted her to the hospital immediately.  
  
“Yeah. She’s gonna be okay though.” Stiles answered.  
  
“You went to see her?” Scott looked flabbergasted.  
  
“No. Jackson was talking about it to Danny in the library. I just eavesdropped.” Stiles viciously stabbed the corner of his paper. His level mood had suddenly gone down the drain.  
  
“Call me tonight. I’ll come over if you want.” Scott offered.  
  
“Thanks, man.” Stiles grinned. There wasn’t much else he could do.  
  
-=-  
  
Stiles dropped his bag in his room, getting on his computer and checking his email. Nothing new. He played a little minesweeper and then, when not even a text message had been heard from Scott, went into the kitchen downstairs and started dinner. Cooking reminded him of his mother, and it made him feel better than he had all day. Hell, maybe he’d start some brownies, too; he felt that good.  
  
He heard the front door open.  
  
“Hey dad!” He called out. “What do you want to drink? I’m almost done in here.”  
  
No answer. Sheriff Stilinski shuffled into the doorway, leaning against the doorframe and crossing his arms over his chest. He just stared at Stiles, expression unreadable. Stiles rose an eyebrow at his father, and when he received no answer still, Stiles shrugged and went to the fridge.  
  
“If you’re gonna be that way, I’m just gonna stick you with seltzer water.” Stiles was half-joking- he had his fingers closed around a beer bottle.  
  
“Stiles.”  
  
It was all the Sheriff had to say and it made Stiles stop. He looked up, the mirth fading from his face as he took in the way his dad looked.  
  
“Dad?” Stiles asked back, mouth going dry.  
  
“Sit down, Stiles.” He had never seen his dad look so haunted.  
  
So he sat down awkwardly, adjusting his ‘kiss the cook’ apron nervously. Stiles watched as his dad served them both up, taking more salad for himself than he ever would have given this opportunity. He set the plates on the table and grabbed himself a seltzer water and Stiles a cream soda. That was when Stiles started to get really worried.  
  
“Dad?” Stiles tried not to let the nervousness bleed into his voice.  
  
The Sheriff shook his head and watched as Stiles ate, not really eating anything himself. Stiles didn’t eat as much as he could have, too tense for anything but moderation. Finally, when he finished, he couldn’t take it anymore.  
  
“Dad, what is it?” Stiles asked, shifting anxiously. “Is it Scott? Did you have to pick him? I mean I totally understand if you did, or if you had to pick Danny or Jackson or even Matt- I bet if you picked Jackson, people would actually thank you, but you know I don’t hold it against you- I’ve never hated you or anything- not even when you picked Lydia. You’re still seriously the best dad ever-”  
  
“ _Stiles_.” His dad looked even worse. “It’s you. They picked you.”  
  
Stiles’ whole world stopped short.  
  
“What?”  
  
Sheriff Stilinski shook his head, shoulders slumped. “They chose you- I couldn’t do anything- it’s a majority vote, and I- I tried everything, I swear I did, Stiles.”  
  
“No, Dad. _Dad._ It’s okay.” Stiles forced out. “It’s alright, Dad, it’s okay.” He swallowed. “How much time until...?” He asked nervously.  
  
“Tomorrow night. They want to hurry- I begged them for more, Stiles, I-”  
  
“Dad.” Stiles stood. “It’s okay, Dad. I don’t hate you or anything. I know you did your best.” His eyes were burning. He went around the table and hugged his dad around the neck. “I’m gonna- call Scott. I’m gonna go to school tomorrow. It’ll be like a normal day, okay?” He had to keep saying it was okay. Otherwise it wasn't.  
  
The Sheriff held onto him like he was about to disappear right then and there. Stiles cleaned up the kitchen with help from the sheriff, and all he could think the whole time was that he was the only one his dad had left. There was nobody else. No grandparents or anything- who was going to make sure that he was okay? Who was going to bake a cake for him on the bad days, and laugh with him and have curly fries on the good ones? Who was going to ride shotgun in the patrol car just because they could? That was all Stiles’ job. Granted, he didn’t always do fantastically, but he loved his dad, and his dad loved him. That was just how they were.  
  
And now who would do all those things? Scott? Scott had his own mom to take care of. And speaking of Scott, who was going to play videogames with that kid? And keep him from not getting F’s? And who the hell was going to go on crazy adventures if not for them both? It wasn’t fair. Stiles’ throat clogged up when he kept thinking about it, blinking away tears. He didn’t want to leave his dad alone. He didn’t even care that two days from now he might be ribbons of flesh on the ground or in a werewolf’s stomach. He just wanted his dad to be okay.  
  
After they cleaned the kitchen, they sort of went their separate ways. And by sort of, Stiles went to his room and his dad came in and out repeatedly. Stiles didn’t blame him, nor try to stop him. He talked on the phone for hours with Scott, about the stupid stuff. About the stuff that didn’t matter. Several times Stiles tried to tell Scott what had happened, but he just couldn’t. He didn’t want all the extra attention at school.  
  
He could do this. And it was going to be a piece of cake. Maybe all he had to do was go up there and give a big badass werewolf a stern talking to, like his mom used to do to him when he’d gotten a skinned knee, and he could go home to his normal life and there would be no more problems.  
  
Totally.  
  
When he finally hung up the phone, it was at least midnight. Stiles rubbed his blurry eyes and dressed for bed, brushed his teeth, all the sort of nightly rituals that he normally did. Tomorrow he was going to be _eaten_ and tonight he was concerned with _dental hygiene._  
  
His dad came in to check on him a final time before he went to bed.  
  
“Get some sleep, Stiles.” He said softly.  
  
“Yeah. Yeah, I will.” Stiles’ lips twitched into an almost smile. The hug they shared then wasn’t awkward, like so many others had been ever since Stiles’ mom had... left.  
  
So there was that, at least.  
  
-=-  
  
The next day at school, Stiles walked around gingerly. Like the whole sky was going to crash down on him. It was an overcast day, which seemed the most appropriate thing about this whole situation. Scott didn’t even seem to notice that anything was wrong, and Stiles wouldn’t have it any other way. He tried to be as pumped and energetic as he could.  
  
Which came in useful when they all had to do suicides for lacrosse practice. But it didn’t last long. He got home and was parked in the driveway, having a parting moment with his Jeep (his beautiful, beautiful Jeep. He’d never drive it again. It was probably the weirdest thing that he hadn’t cried with his dad, but he was about to cry now about the loss of his _car_.) when his dad came out of the house. Followed by a few other officers. He came over and knocked on Stiles’ car window.  
  
Stiles obligingly rolled it down.  
  
“I asked to escort you, but since I’m your father, they won’t let me go. This is Montoya and Peters, they’re going to take you down there.” His dad clasped his hand on the steering wheel. Stiles could only nod.  
  
It was dark out when they arrived, Stiles in the back of the patrol car, the two officers in the front seat. It wasn’t the first time he’d been in the backseat of a police car, but it was the first time he’d ever felt like a prisoner.  
  
Stiles watched as the woods approached. Closer, closer. He could only see a few feet into them, and then the slopes of the mountain were either too steep or the trees were too thick and darkness enfolded early.  
  
Stiles had the idle thought that he hadn’t even had dinner yet. Or a cupcake. Dammit- he’d wanted one of those.  
  
Oh well. Too late now.  
  
The officers kept glancing at him in the rearview mirror. Stiles pretended not to notice. Nobody said anything.  
  
They chose a spot, or the spot had been chosen before they’d ever come here, and stopped the car. Stiles swallowed, hesitated as long as possible, and got out after them. Nobody ever came out this far into the woods, even on these streets, and especially not at night. Stiles wished for the first time that a viable option was running away. The officers had stun guns, and Stiles knew that in a worst case scenario, they were to use them on him and drag his body into the woods while he couldn’t move and leave him there.  
  
They gave him a map and a compass and pointed him the direction of a clearing he was supposed to go to, and then Stiles was looking over his shoulder at them as he walked into the woods.  
  
There was an instant difference between the side of the road and the cover of the trees. It was cooler in the woods, if only by a few degrees, and smelled like pine needles and all sorts of nice woody smells that Stiles might have enjoyed if he were here for any other reason than why he was actually here.  
  
He walked until he couldn’t see the officers anymore. He wasn’t even paying attention to his map. Or the compass, except to watch the needle move occasionally, a little mesmerized. And of course, continuing on in this way, Stiles soon got lost.  
  
Lost as _fuck._ The map was detailed, but it was dark in the woods and soon Stiles couldn’t read it. He kept it anyway, because if it started raining, maybe he could use it for a makeshift umbrella or something. Because that would be useful. Maybe.  
  
And of course, no sooner had he thought this than it began to pour. You’d think that under the trees, the rain wouldn’t be as intense. In reality, the drops were just bigger and wetter and probably had more dirt in them if they were sliding off of leaves and stuff. This was the sort of thing Stiles thought about when he was nervous. As it was, he was already muttering to himself.  
  
“Which totally makes sense, some people whistle, but I can’t even do that. I could sing. But that’s probably not a good idea. Whose idea was it that singing and whistling and stuff was supposed to make you less afraid?” He knew he was probably just going to draw Derek to him, if Derek was even out here.  
  
Stiles couldn’t hear any sort of animal, or see any, let alone a wolf of any size with bright blue eyes.  
  
He carried on until he could see lightning bugs appearing through the trees, little flashes of yellow among the sounds of rain hitting the trees and the forest floor. He had started shivering a while ago- he lost track of time in here, and his phone was in his pocket, but he didn’t want to ruin it by taking it out in the rain, little mini map umbrella be damned.  
  
Finally, he couldn’t go on anymore. Not in the dark, not like this. He’d find Derek, totally. Just- in the morning. He found a good pine tree that seemed to have good, wide leaves or needles or whatever they are and huddled under it. The ground underneath wasn’t _so_ wet. Stiles still pressed as close to the trunk as he could get.  
  
He watched the fireflies for a while, unable to fall asleep. They liked it under the trees too, landing on the branches upside down and lighting up at intervals. Stiles was able to catch a few in his hands, but he let them go soon after. They tickled too much to hold. People who had never seen one before assumed fireflies were adorable little bugs just because they lit up, but to Stiles they looked kind of like overgrown ants or some stunted kind of wasp. Pretty harmless, though.  
  
A dozen facts about fireflies zoomed around his head. Like the fact that the light they made was actually a chemical reaction happening in their body. And that the light is only to find a mate, and they stop when they’re scared.  
  
Stiles noticed some time later- couldn’t have been more than five minutes- that all the little yellow-green lights had gone out. And none of them were coming back on. His heart started to pound a little harder- maybe they’d all just flown away? To somewhere drier or warmer or whatever? Yeah, that had to be it.  
  
He heard a wet twig crack softly somewhere behind him and stiffened. Something was making snuffling noises, and it was getting closer. Stiles squeezed his eyes shut. If death was coming, he hoped it was going to be painless and he definitely didn’t want to see it arriving.  
  
Something wet touched his arm that definitely wasn’t a raindrop.  
  
It took Stiles several long moments to realize that he was being licked. He cautiously opened his eyes. Right next to his face, there was the biggest wolf head he’d ever seen in his life. It’s black, with silver around its eyes and in its ears and around its muzzle.  
  
And it had blue eyes.  
  
Stiles’ heart stopped for a moment and he held his breath. Up until then, he could have fooled himself that it was just an oversized stray dog. Maybe. But now he really couldn’t. He slowly, hesitantly, exhaled, reaching out to touch the wolf’s head. Because Derek could totally be licking him to see how tasty he was. Derek pulled back, lips curling back from his teeth in a snarl. Stiles flinched back, even though Derek hadn’t made any sound.  
  
“My, what big teeth you have.” Stiles stuttered. Jesus Christ, this was actually happening. He felt faint.  
  
Derek looked at him like he was one stupid motherfucker. Which, incidentally, Stiles was on occasion. But not right now. No, he was not being stupid right now. It was not stupid to be absolutely terrified of a giant monster that was supposed to rip your heart out and eat it.  
  
Except that wasn’t happening.  
  
As soon as Stiles’ hand was lowered, Derek went back to licking his arm. Stiles looked at the place he was giving attention to- was this really like _how many licks does it take to get to the center of a Stiles-pop?_ Because that was easy. _One, two, three, CHOMP._ There was a cut on his arm, not very big and not very deep, but bleeding sluggishly. And under Derek’s doctoring, it was stopping. Stiles didn’t think this was a good thing. After all, now Derek had a taste for his blood.  
  
Right? Right.  
  
Derek seemed satisfied with his handiwork and started to sniff around Stiles, as he had been the forest floor minutes ago. He apparently found nothing else wrong with him (though it was very disconcerting to have your crotch sniffed by someone you knew could become human at any moment but were afraid to shove away) and reached out and grabbed Stiles’ soaking sweatshirt in his teeth. Not hard, but almost daintily. Derek started to tug imploringly.  
  
When Stiles didn’t move, Derek became more insistent, moving around him and starting to nudge his shoulders with his muzzle. There was real force behind it. Enough to almost send Stiles sprawling.  
  
He got up hurriedly, as soon as he figured out what Derek wanted him to do. Derek gave him a hard look and started to walk. Stiles felt frozen. Derek was _huge_. _Easily_ horse sized. _Horse. Sized._ Okay, so maybe he was exaggerating. Pony sized. An average-sized pony size.  
  
Derek stopped and looked back, like Stiles was stupid again.  
  
Stiles hurried to catch up, using the map as an umbrella. He didn’t know how long they walked, only that Derek was quite nimble and enjoyed jumping over fallen tree trunks just so that Stiles either had to go around or scramble over. Stiles got the sense that this was what playing with your food was like for werewolves, because he was getting tired pretty fast. The freezing rain wasn’t helping- the path they took had trees that were less dense, which meant more direct rain. A wind was starting to whip up, and Stiles looked up at the sky for only a second.  
  
It was completely covered over with thick clouds, but there was a lighter spot that Stiles had to assume was the moon.  
  
Derek seemed unconcerned with how fast or slow they went, alternating his pace. He was soaked too, fur plastered to his body, and Stiles could only imagine how much bigger he would look if he was all puffed up.  
  
He got an image of a Pomeranian just come out of a grooming, except it was a miniature wolf Derek that was all fluffed up. He laughed to himself, and wasn’t surprised to find that he sounded a little hysterical, even to his own ears.  
  
Derek was a good guide, though. Stiles had heard about sand pits and bogs that you didn’t see until you stepped in them, and Derek seemed to skirt around these. He also stopped and made sure Stiles noticed any protruding roots that were somewhat hidden, digging them out briefly with his paws before continuing onwards. This Stiles was grateful for- he had trouble not tripping over his own feet on a _good_ day.  
  
Finally, after what felt like hours, they broke into a clearing quite suddenly. Derek didn’t seem to notice how much of a difference this made to Stiles and kept ambling towards a house that was in the middle of the property, if you could call it that. To Stiles, it looked like something out of a house magazine that he’d seen in the doctor’s office or something. And it was _huge_ , too. Stiles couldn’t believe that Derek lived there all alone. In the driveway was a sleek black Camero, and the bushes around the porch of the house sported roses that were bright red even at night in the rain.  
  
Derek was already on the porch, shaking himself off with his feet planted far apart, all the way down to his tail. He looked back at Stiles, blue eyes glowing even from the darkness of the porch. Stiles gulped and ran to the cover of the porch, shivering as soon as the rain stopped hitting him. Not that he hadn’t been before, but he really was now. He wrapped his arms around himself and tried to keep his teeth from chattering. He was already Derek’s Happy Meal, he didn’t want to sound like some hyper chipmunk at the same time.  
  
But Derek wasn’t looking at him like food. He was looking at him almost like he pitied Stiles. But the look was gone almost immediately and Stiles had to question himself on whether or not he’d actually seen it. Derek shouldered his front door open (Stiles had to assume that this was Derek’s house) and left it open, so Stiles, getting the message by now, followed him. He closed the door and waited on the doormat.  
  
The entryway was warm and inviting, painted yellow (not the gross kind of yellow, the happy kind of yellow that reminded Stiles of a dress his mother once owned. It made him feel warm inside, too.) with white moulding along the floors and ceiling. Derek wasn’t anywhere in sight. There was a large staircase that had polished wood. There was a half-moon table up against the wall to the left that had a little potted plant in it and car keys, as well as a few envelopes torn open. When Stiles looked down, there were pairs of shoes next to the door. To the left, Stiles could see what looked like a living room with tasteful furniture and a hearth that had a fire crackling merrily in the grate. A small stack of firewood laid in a holder next to it. Stiles could just barely see a window seat at the far end of the room.  
  
To the right appeared to be a dining area of some kind, with a large table and numerous chairs around it. Made sense- this house was _way_ too big for one person. There _had_ to be more people here. Wolves or not.  
  
There was a hallway going behind the staircase on both sides, but Stiles could only see closed doors from where he was. And he couldn’t see up the stairs at all.  
  
Stiles waited.  
  
He wasn’t waiting long before someone came down the stairs. Yeah. Some _one._ Not a wolf. Stiles’ attention was captured instantly.  
  
The man was short, but taller than Stiles was, and Stiles knew he’d never get that tall. Probably. Scott and he were pretty sure that Stiles had stopped growing when he was fourteen and would never grow again. The guy before him had pale skin, though on his arms and face he was a little bit more tan than the rest of him. He wore grey sweatpants, and only grey sweatpants, and went barefoot. His face was chiseled, his jaw strong. He had the beginnings of a beard there, and his black hair was limp in the way that said it was supposed to stick up but wasn’t yet dry enough to do that but not wet enough to lay flat either. The man’s cheekbones were high, but they fit with his face somehow. Made him look hunted and tortured, in a tall-dark-and-handsome way.  
  
And Stiles shouldn’t even get started on his muscles. _Sculpted by the gods._  
  
A weird look crossed the guy’s face and Stiles realized he said that out loud. He ducked his head and flushed, embarrassed, and bit his lip. Trying not to say anything embarrassing rarely went well for him.  
  
Stiles realized that Derek (it had to be Derek, who else could it be?) was holding out a towel to him and took it, gladly using it to dry his face and hair and the back of his neck.  
  
“You should get out of those clothes.” Derek said quietly.  
  
Stiles could have sworn that angels sung when Derek spoke.  
  
“Oh, yeah, right, yeah.” Stiles swallowed. “Uh.” He didn’t exactly plan to live this long.  
  
“Just go upstairs. Second door on the right. Anything that’ll fit you. You can leave your wet stuff in the bathroom.”  
  
Stiles almost asked where the bathroom was, but Derek walked into the dining area then and through a door Stiles hadn’t seen before that led to a kitchen, and Stiles didn’t have the courage to follow him. So instead he tip-toed up the stairs, wincing every time they creaked, murmuring to himself.  
  
“Second door on the right, second door on the right.” Oh god he didn’t want to break something.  
  
Stiles usually kept his hands in his pockets whenever he was in somebody’s house, other than Scott’s. Invariably he would get curious and reach out to touch something precious or delicate or both and it would break and Stiles was never invited again. So he didn’t do that.  
  
Instead, he touched with his eyes, looking at everything and trying not to stop so he didn’t drip on the carpet. There were paintings everywhere, and a few photos of the woods (some with that datestamp on it that proved it was a personal photo), but the one thing there wasn’t any trace of were pictures of Derek’s family.  
  
Surely he had some. He had to. Parents and all that. So where were their pictures? Maybe there was a cabinet or something in the living room, Stiles reasoned, and he just hadn’t seen them yet. He couldn’t help the curiosity.  
  
He went into the second room on the right and the change was instant. From the warm, cheery hallway, Stiles stepped into a room that was dark and cold. He flicked on the light.  
  
This had to be Derek’s room.  
  
The walls were painted dark, deep red. The bed was made, but hurriedly and without effort. Clothes were scattered on the floor around a hamper, and there was a closet that stood half-open. There was a desk with a laptop on it, but the computer was off and not plugged in. The wastebasket underneath was filled with crumpled pieces of paper. The nightstand by the bed had a lamp and one framed photo on it, and a book that when Stiles tilted his head read as _Hamlet_. Damn. Never would have thought of a raving monster to be versed in Shakespeare.  
  
Stiles soon saw what Derek meant by bathroom. There was an adjoining bathroom, small though it was, with a shower and a toilet and a sink and a medicine cabinet that doubled as a mirror. It also looked lived-in. Stiles ducked inside and stripped down, drying himself off the rest of the way and hanging his clothes neatly on the shower curtain rod. He went back out into the room cautiously, as if something might have changed. It didn’t.  
  
He felt bad going through Derek’s drawers, like he was snooping, and tried to hurry. But there was nothing embarrassing to be found, not even a weird pair of boxers or some strange tie. Or even tube socks. What kind of dude didn’t have a single pair of tube socks? Derek’s kind of dude, apparently.  
  
Or maybe it was just Stiles that owned tube socks.  
  
He pulled out some pants that looked like they hadn’t been worn in a long, _long_ time, and a flannel shirt that he could roll the sleeves up on and button up and tuck in. He looked in the floor-length mirror that was inside Derek’s closet. He didn’t look _too_ ridiculous. He guessed.  
  
The whole room smelled of cinnamon and honey, and a warmth that wasn’t felt in the air but the kind you got after hanging clothes out to dry in the sunlight for too long, even though Stiles hadn’t seen any kind of clothesline outside. The clothes smelled like it even more so. But he hadn’t noticed the smell in the rest of the house- maybe that was just what Derek smelled like.  
  
Stiles tried not to like it.  
  
He went back downstairs after putting the towel with his clothes, his hand on the banister light and barely-there. It was waxed, but obviously hadn’t been for a while. Stiles could imagine Derek spending long hours just pushing a cloth back and forth over the same spot, muscles in his back and arms working- and wow okay, he really needed to stop that train of thought about the guy who was supposed to eat him but Stiles was starting to suspect was more like a nice big bad wolf than a, y’know, Big Bad Wolf.  
  
Stiles searched for Derek, feeling rude if he were to go into the living room or another room or something without him. That also felt like snooping, and possibly something that could get him into very hot water very quickly. He found Derek in the kitchen, bending over the stove and frowning at something that was bubbling in a pot. Like he was trying to scorch it into being cooked with just his eyes.  
  
Stiles tried not to roll his eyes. He really did.  
  
He shoved Derek aside without thinking and looked in the pot. It looked like it was supposed to be macaroni and cheese, except there was more macaroni and less cheese.  
  
“Spoon.” Stiles held out his hand, the other hand going to the handle of the pot.  
  
A wooden spoon was provided him without comment, and Stiles pretended like it was nothing out of the ordinary and started stirring.  
  
Ah. There was the cheese. All burned at the bottom. Stiles sighed and turned down the heat on the stove, starting to stir more vigorously. Mixing it up helped, and the burned parts were soon completely invisible. It didn’t look like a lot of it had burned anyway. just the stuff at the very bottom of the pan. Soon, Stiles had it looking like proper macaroni and cheese.  
  
Derek provided him with bowls, too, without being prompted this time. There were two bowls. Stiles cautiously filled them both, one with more macaroni than the other and gestured that that one was Derek’s. If he was full on macaroni, he couldn’t be full of Stiles later. It made sense. And Stiles really didn’t feel like he could eat anyway. In fact, he felt faintly sick. And really tired.  
  
Derek sat down at the table, which had only two places set, and Stiles copied him. He watched Derek take a bite first, trying to gauge his reaction. Good? Bad? Stiles was really hoping for having extra stellar awesome macaroni and cheese, that way Derek might keep him around for his cooking instead of eating him.  
  
But there was no reaction, at least not outwardly. Derek kept his eyes on his food, or anywhere but Stiles, really, and Stiles had to stop staring at some point because otherwise his was going to get cold and he still hadn’t eaten yet. He tried to eat fast, fairly certain that this was his last meal and his execution was coming soon.  
  
Surprisingly, Derek was the first one to break the silence. He didn’t seem like a man of many words, anyway.  
  
“I’m not going to vault over the table at you.” He grunted, almost disdainfully if he’d been having a facial expression at the time.  
  
Having a facial expression. Like it was a disease. Stiles imagined that for Derek, it was.  
  
“You’re a werewolf. Usually when people are sent here, they don’t come back. Ergo, you eat them. Or kill them. Or take them out in the woods blindfolded and spin them around and around until they don’t know which way is up and then let them go.” Stiles accused suspiciously, jabbing his cheesy fork in Derek’s direction.  
  
Derek raised an eyebrow, nonplussed. “That’s exactly what I did. Without the spinning around part. I pointed them back to the road and whether they took my advice or not isn’t any of my business.” He returned to his macaroni.  
  
Stiles couldn’t tell if he was telling the truth and narrowed his eyes. But Derek really didn’t look like somebody who enjoyed ripping people apart- not that Stiles really knew what that looked like, but Jackson seemed to do a good impression of it whenever he was in Stiles’ or Scott’s general vicinity- and his house wasn’t the scary dark cave Stiles had thought he lived in, so he had that going for him.  
  
“I don’t trust you.” Stiles announced.  
  
Derek grunted, like he’d known this. “And I don’t trust you. So we’re even.”  
  
This was surprising to Stiles.  
  
“Why don’t you trust me? I mean, I can understand not liking me- not a lot of people can handle how stunningly amazing I am basically all the time- but I’m only human. Weak. Fragile. Bony.” Stiles added the last part just in case, even though it was true. He was all lean limbs and lankiness that he hadn’t quite filled out into yet. “If you’re not going to eat me, and we’ve established that I have big problems with staying here because I don’t trust you- what exactly do you expect me to be able to do?” It wasn’t exactly like Stiles could defend himself in the event of Derek deciding dinner was ready.  
  
Derek was looking at him like he was amazed that one person could fit all of that into one breath. Stiles wasn’t surprised- he got that look at least ten or twenty times a day, and usually from Scott, even though he should know better.  
  
Derek didn’t answer him, just shook his head like the world was ending and he was right in the middle of it going _Welp. Nothing else to do._ He took his clean bowl- entirely clean, Stiles noticed. Not even a single string of cheese remained- and went back into the kitchen. Stiles picked at his own food, chewing his tongue. Now what?  
  
He heard water running in the other room and assumed that Derek was washing out his bowl and seemed correct when he saw Derek, a folded up dish towel over one shoulder, putting away the bowl back in the cabinet and the fork in the drawer before hanging the dish towel on the stove handle and returning.  
  
“You can leave any time you want. The road is just down the driveway. Left will bring you back to Beacon Hills, right takes you up into the mountains.” Derek sounded rehearsed. Like he’d said this to so many people it wasn’t even funny. “The guest room is upstairs, last door on the left. There’s a bathroom upstairs next to the guest room and one downstairs down the hall. You can go anywhere you want downstairs, but upstairs, please stick to the guest room and the bathroom. Knock before you enter mine.” Stiles had a feeling like this was the most he was ever going to get out of Derek, ever. Ever.  
  
“Okay.” He said, for lack of anything else. His mind was kind of blown right now.  
  
“There’s a TV in the living room. Good luck getting it to work.” And with that, Derek disappeared upstairs. A few minutes later, Stiles saw him come back down and disappear into a room on down the hallway with an armful of Stiles’ clothes.  
  
And he’d done it all with a completely straight face.  
  
In the end, Stiles finished his macaroni and copied Derek by washing out the bowl and putting it back after drying it, because Derek was being so hospitable. He washed the pot and the spoon, but since he didn’t know where they were supposed to go he just left them drying in the sink. It was still raining by the time he was done, and the clock on the stove read two in the morning, so Stiles headed upstairs as quietly as he could. The door to Derek’s room was closed, but when Stiles paused, he could hear the soft turning of a page inside.  
  
He followed Derek’s directions to the bathroom and made use of it, washing his hands and letting the familiar feeling of water rushing over his fingers soothe him. If he closed his eyes and held his breath (because it smelled different in Derek’s house, if nothing else), he could pretend that he was home.  
  
He went into the guest bedroom. It had floral prints everywhere, and the bed was large and looked pretty comfy. Stiles undressed and laid the clothes he’d borrowed on the dresser near the door (which he’d closed and locked, by the way) and slid under the comforter. It was warm, and the soft pitter-patter of calming rain outside was easy on his ears. Stiles pulled the blanket up to his chin and rolled towards the window. He could see the moon sometimes through breaks in the clouds.  
  
He fell asleep to the sound of the rain and the trees outside swaying in the wind, the soft creaking of the house as it settled. Little did he know that Derek was listening from four rooms away, sitting in bed and leaning against the headboard, his forefinger and thumb paused in turning the next page of _Hamlet_.  
  
-=-  
  
The next morning, when Stiles awoke, it was to sunlight bright in his face and a knocking on his door. At first it was easy to think that it was his dad telling him he was late for school, but then he opened his eyes. And he remembered. He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms, running his hands through his hair after and rubbing furiously at his buzz cut. He looked around. Nothing looked disturbed. Derek apparently didn’t come and stand over him all night, like they always do in the Paranormal Activity movies.  
  
Which was good, because Stiles didn’t know how he’d be able to handle a big broody werewolf looming over him all night.  
  
He got up, even though the knock didn’t come again, and got dressed in the clothes he’d borrowed before emerging cautiously. Nobody was in the hallway. But the door to Derek’s room was open. Stiles exited the guest room and closed the door behind him just in case Derek liked all his doors closed (it seemed like it) and took a peek.  
  
Derek wasn’t inside. So he went downstairs. Derek was there, in the dining room, eating a bowl of Cheerios and reading the back of the box in an almost disinterested way.  
  
“You would.” Was the first thing that came out of Stiles’ mouth.  
  
Derek glanced at him, eyebrow raised, and then returned to reading the box.  
  
“Eat Cheerios, I mean. My dad eats them because I make him- his cholesterol and stuff- but they are the most bland cereal in the world. Did you know they make them out of cardboard? They do. It’s all a ruse. Cheerios are just compressed paper into little o’s because that seems to fool the international population.” Stiles said matter-of-factly. “Do they even sell Cheerios, in, like, I dunno, Japan? Or Africa? South Africa, mind you, because we all know actual Africa is full of poor tribes and villages and stuff.” Stiles flopped into the seat across from Derek.  
  
He seemed to have Derek’s attention, to say the least. The werewolf was looking at him with something akin to resignation on his face, listening because Stiles wasn’t going to just go away it seemed.  
  
“No joke. I did a project once, in middle school or something. Africa is one of the poorest countries in the world.”  
  
“Continents.” Derek corrected.  
  
“That’s what I said. Continents.” It was morning. Stiles would cover his ass where he could. Sometimes he talked so fast that facts got mixed up because he was trying to say them all at once. He took it in stride. Even before coffee.  
  
Speaking of which, Derek seemed to take it black.  
  
“Is everything about you so predictable?!” Stiles exclaimed, throwing his hands up and then putting his head down on the table and groaning.  
  
Hey. Derek said to make himself at home. Pretty much. And that was what Stiles was going to do.  
  
“I don’t know. Is it?” Derek asked, returning to reading the cereal box.  
  
“The one time- _the one time_ \- I meet a werewolf, and he is about as interesting and suspenseful as watching grass grow.” Stiles huffed.  
  
Derek growled, low in his chest, and Stiles really wasn’t expecting that. He stiffened.  
  
But it seemed to be a passing thing, and Derek soon returned to his _let’s ignore the human_ morning, getting his empty bowl and tossing back the rest of his coffee and heading into the kitchen. Stiles looked at Derek in amazement. He could have sworn that that coffee was _hot_ \- Derek probably had a throat of steel.  
  
Stiles found that Derek didn’t only have Cheerio’s. He had oatmeal.  
  
The plain kind.  
  
Stiles could have smacked himself, because _what else would Derek have._ He ate it anyway.  
  
And then it was time to explore.  
  
The house was big, that much was for sure. The rooms downstairs all seemed to be variations on the living room, though none of them had a fireplace, and one even appeared to be a study of some kind, with lots of books, both on bookshelves and stacked on the floor. Stiles found the Shakespeare section and was gratified to find that not only was _Hamlet_ missing, but so was _As You Like It_ and _All’s Well That Ends Well._  
  
So at least Derek wasn’t bland in his literature. A tragedy and two comedies was good enough for Stiles.  
  
He found his way outside, then. Now that it had rained, and the sun was out, everything looked and smelled fresh and green again. The roses had turned their faces to the sky and unfurled every single bud, and Stiles took a moment to smell them- haha- and admire the other parts of the garden. He couldn’t imagine Derek on his knees in the dirt planting anything but trees or prickly thorn bushes, which made him wonder who had planted all the flowers. There were a lot of them, most that Stiles couldn’t even name but he thought were nice.  
  
There was a shed out back that Stiles made his way towards, but it was locked with a heavy padlock and there was no way that he was ignoring such an obvious ‘keep out’. And on the left side of the house there was a well. Not a fairy-tale wishing well that you dropped a coin in or lifted a bucket from, but a hole in the ground that had rocks piled haphazardly around it, if only to mark where it was so nobody fell in. Stiles leaned cautiously over the edge and saw that it was completely full of water. Probably rainwater. But there was no bucket and Stiles was hesitant to drink anything that ever came out of it.  
  
Even if he boiled it beforehand.  
  
Maybe especially then.  
  
“Careful.”  
  
The word came so suddenly from behind him- Stiles hadn’t even heard Derek approach- that he jumped violently and flinched back from the edge of the well. His back hit something hard, and strong, broad hands came up and gripped his biceps. Stiles looked up to see Derek looking down at him, eyebrows furrowed.  
  
“I bet if you were mute, you could communicate with just your eyebrows. Like, I can tell what you’re thinking right now.”  
  
Derek’s eyebrows rose, slowly. Both of them.  
  
“See? Before you were thinking _What is that kid doing, he’s really stupid getting so near to that well_ \- and now you’re still thinking about how stupid I am but you do kind of believe me.”  
  
Derek let go of Stiles and stepped away, scoffing and then scowling.  
  
“Just stay away from the well. The rocks aren’t that stable.”  
  
And then he went to the shed and unlocked the padlock, throwing the doors wide and going inside. Stiles couldn’t help himself. He really couldn’t. So he followed. Derek seemed to be trying to drag something outside. Something buried beneath a bunch of other somethings, judging by the sounds coming from inside. Stiles watched as Derek braced his foot on what looked like a wooden bench of some kind and _pulled_.  
  
“Stiles, _duck._ ” Derek grunted.  
  
Stiles didn’t ask twice, pulling his head back from the opening as something big and black came flying out.  
  
He looked at it as it landed and skidded a few feet, finally coming to a stop. It looked like some kind of leather seat, except without a back, and with a strap on the bottom. If Stiles didn’t know any better, he’d say it was a saddle, but without stirrups. Derek emerged from the shed a moment later, wiping his hands on his pants and looking at them just a moment before looking at the saddle-thing, brows still furrowed. His chest was heaving. Apparently, that took some effort. Even for a werewolf.  
  
“... How do you know my name?” Stiles asked. “And what is that? Why do you have it? Is it some kind of torture device? If it’s as heavy as it looks, I bet you could strap it to somebody and drown them.” Stiles mused. He didn’t know why he thought about some of these things.  
  
But Derek was looking at him like he kind of wanted to strap it to Stiles and then dump him down the well, so Stiles shut his mouth with an audible click.  
  
“It was written on the tag on your sweatshirt.” Derek returned to the inside of the shed, producing a sawhorse and propping it up outside. “That is a saddle. It’s not mine. And it depends on how you look at it.”  
  
Derek set the saddle on the sawhorse and went back in the shed for a third time. When he came out, he held a bucket and a box of baking soda and a rag. He filled the bucket up at the house with a hose, Stiles standing in the yard like a douche and just watching. Like hell was he helping Derek with this when he didn’t even know what he was doing.  
  
Derek mixed the baking soda with the water, only a little, and started to scrub at the saddle.  
  
It didn’t seem to need a lot of work with the way Derek was rubbing it. Before Stiles’ eyes, the leather started to gleam like new, the dust and the years coming away. Patterns of stitching appeared before Stiles’ eyes. Wolves, running along the edges of the saddle and around the tiny bit of a horn that existed. They were intricate, even their fur stitched in, and their eyes seemed alive somehow. In the center of this ring of wolves was a moon, full and pockmarked with craters. It was beautiful. The more he looked, the more he saw.  
  
The moon wasn’t a moon at all. It was a dream catcher, with feathers hanging off of it from all directions, pointing to the wolves’ open mouths. There were beads sewn into the leather, as if they’d always belonged there. Stiles glanced at Derek, whose expression did not change as he worked. In fact, he looked more troubled as he went on.  
  
He did the whole saddle, top, bottom, strap, everywhere. Stiles was impressed, to say the least. He didn’t know how long they were out there under the sun, but soon enough Derek was straightening up, dropping the rag in the bucket for the last time (which was, by now, extremely dirty) and wiping his brow. He walked back inside, seemingly unconcerned as to whether or not Stiles followed.  
  
Or maybe he just expected Stiles to follow at this point. Either way, that was what Stiles did.  
  
Turns out, they returned to the house so that Derek could make lunch. Which turned out to be sandwiches of a not-bland kind. Turkey, mayo, lettuce, tomato, and potato chips. Stiles will eat almost anything you put in front of him, so he was okay with this development.  
  
Derek finished fast and took care of his dishes as per usual and returned outside. Stiles followed suit, watching him work on the saddle even after it looked to Stiles like nothing else could be done to make it look even better than he already did.  
  
It started to get dark before Stiles thought it should, and he found himself looking up at the sky in surprise, the sun setting through the woods and creating slanting shadows across the back yard. He looked to Derek, surprisingly, for guidance.  
  
Derek didn’t look particularly changed, just stretched out his muscles and back and watched the shadows creep up the side of his house for a moment before taking the saddle and the sawhorse under one arm ( _How?!_ , Stiles thought) and the bucket in the other hand and took them to the porch where they would be covered and protected from the elements somewhat.  
  
Stiles went inside and invited himself into the kitchen. He found something to make for dinner- pork chops and corn and potatoes. Derek took one look at him working in the kitchen (wearing an apron he’d found hanging on the inside of the pantry door that looked a little girly and said _As long as I have this apron on, I am the BOSS_ and Stiles could totally work with that) and then went back out.  
  
Stiles left everything for a moment, only a moment, and saw Derek sitting in the living room reading _Hamlet_. Stiles let him go and returned to his cooking. Best cook ever, he reassured himself, and had everything on the table in record time.  
  
“Dinner’s ready!” He called out, wiping his hands on a towel and hanging up the apron.  
  
He wasn’t expecting to turn around and immediately see Derek in the hallway. He blinked in surprise, and then gestured to the plate he’d dished up for Derek. It was hot, but Stiles hoped he’d given Derek enough food. He hadn’t taken nearly as much for himself, though his appetite had returned.  
  
“I don’t know if it’s going to taste as great. Usually I make it with this gravy, but you didn’t have any mustard, so I just left it.” Stiles shrugged.  
  
Derek didn’t even look up, and excuse Stiles for the pun, but he was _wolfing_ down his food. It wasn’t that special. At least, Stiles didn’t think so. He made stuff the way he always made stuff. There wasn’t much talking from Derek’s side of the table, so Stiles did most of the babbling. He spoke about school and Scott and his dad and his house, and a little bit about his mom but nothing truly revealing.  
  
He didn’t know if Derek was listening or not, but whenever he paused, Derek would look up like he expected Stiles to go on. So Stiles did.  
  
When Derek got up with an empty- Spotless. _How?!_ \- plate, Stiles thought he was done eating, only to have Derek come back with seconds of everything there had been seconds of. So another pork chop in addition to the two he’d already had, another heaping serving of potatoes, and more corn but less than Stiles knew he could have had.  
  
Stiles was flattered. Derek liked his cooking. _Derek_ liked _his_ cooking.  
  
“Fuck yes.” Stiles said out loud.  
  
Derek didn’t even look up, accepting it as part of Stiles’ babble and glancing up when Stiles had nothing else to say.  
  
So Stiles launched into the finer details of lacrosse, putting in his own experiences. It was strange how he knew basically everything about the sport there was to know and then going out on the field to play it and really sucking at it.  
  
Stiles was about to go and wash the dishes when he’d finished himself, but Derek stopped him with a shake of his head.  
  
“You cooked. I’ll clean.” He said shortly, getting up with his cleaned plate for the second time and going into the kitchen.  
  
He clogged up the sink and threw a dish towel over his shoulder and started washing. Stiles retreated to the living room, where he hadn’t spent much time yet. He sat down on the couch, watching the fire crackle. The couch was comfortable and the fire was warm, if dying a little, and Stiles smiled to himself. He could hear Derek silently cleaning up, as he seemed to do most things.  
  
 _It’s the quiet ones you gotta watch._ He thought with a snicker.  
  
He spotted Derek’s _Hamlet_ book and decided it couldn’t hurt to leaf through it a little, so long as he didn’t lose Derek’s place. He’d ruined a chance with Lydia once doing that, flipping through her book and just out flew her bookmark, what was Stiles supposed to do, catch it like a ninja? Stiles had ninja reflexes- he swore he did- but they decided to kick in at weird times and mostly just be absent from the picture.  
  
Derek’s book was highlighted and annotated in a chicken-scratch hand that was somehow still legible, if smudged in some places because it was written in pencil. Things like longer words, or sometimes whole sentences.  
  
And then Stiles got to the _To be or Not To Be_ speech. It was so annotated, Stiles couldn’t really read anything _but_ the annotations.  
  
 _To be or not to be- to die or to live_  
  
And then further down the page,  
  
 _To die, to sleep, perchance to Dream. Aye, there’s the rub.- no heaven/hell, when we die we sleep, a good dream or a bad dream? Can never wake up._  
  
Stiles swallowed. He remembered learning all of that in English class, maybe not exactly that, but most of it. Was it Derek’s handwriting, or somebody else’s? Stiles flipped to the front of the book. Nope, there, right on the top in a neater hand but still recognizable as the same one-  
  
 _Property of Derek Hale._  
  
Stiles looked up to see Derek staring at him from the doorway with an unreadable expression on his face. Stiles’ thumb slipped, and the pages fluttered, and there went Derek’s bookmark, sailing right over Stiles’ shoulder.  
  
Stiles watched it land on the ground and then looked at Derek, who looked more than disgruntled.  
  
“Eh...” Stiles laughed nervously and set the book down gingerly where he’d found it before getting up and getting the bookmark. “Sorry. I should just... not touch things. And stuff. Sorry.” He said again.  
  
Derek advanced on him, a growl building in his chest, and Stiles backed up, fear seizing his limbs. He swallowed, paling, heart pounding. Derek backed him all the way to the wall, where he still got in Stiles’ face, even though Stiles was pretty sure that he couldn’t make himself any smaller and non-threatening.  
  
“Uh- bony- remember?” Stiles tried.  
  
“Don’t. Touch. My stuff.” Derek growled.  
  
And then he was gone, just like that, grabbing _Hamlet_ and disappearing up the stairs.  
  
Stiles’ legs felt rubbery, his knees like water, and he sank to the ground where he stood.  
  
-=-  
  
The next morning, it seemed that Derek had forgotten all about the Hamlet incident. Stiles found him once more reading the back of the Cheerio’s box. He babbled again at breakfast about something he no longer remembered. But after that, Derek completely disappeared, the saddle too. Just gone. His car was still in the driveway, but he didn’t seem to be anywhere in the house or the yard, and Stiles was reluctant to go into the woods and get lost (because that was probably what was going to happen if he went out there) so he took to wandering around.  
  
He wondered if his dad was okay. Stiles was still alive, and Derek had said he was allowed to leave, but for some reason, he stayed. Maybe he was expecting other wolves to show up at some point. Stiles’ opinion that the house was too big for one person still stood. But he still hadn’t seen anyone but Derek, either.  
  
He knew Derek told him not to go near the well.  
  
He knew Derek told him the rocks were unstable.  
  
He _knew_.  
  
But he wanted to see if the water had gone down yet. Fun fact: _it had._ Another fun fact: _rocks got slippery when they were wet._ And these had _moss_ on them. Actual _moss_.  
  
Stiles put one foot on them and they slipped, and _he_ slipped, arms pinwheeling, and down into the well he went. He tried grasping at the other rocks, but those just came down, too, right on top of him. Stiles landed with a splash at the bottom of the well, knees buckling. Looks like he’d found the bottom. His knees and hips and ankles protested with the abuse, and Stiles went careening into the muddy, sludg-y well wall. pulling himself away, Stiles looked up. The well was so much deeper than it had looked.  
  
Usually when he looked down from a big wall or something, the fall looked longer than it really was. But this? It was the opposite. The well looked like it would only be five or six feet deep. Really, it was more like ten.  
  
Nevermind the fact that the rocks had all come down around him, splooshing and plopping into the water and splashing Stiles so that he was thoroughly drenched with mud and water. He was pretty sure that some of it had gotten in his mouth and, yeah, _grossnasty._  
  
It was late morning when he’d fallen in, and it felt like forever that he was down there. It was getting dark. And his feet kept sinking into the mud below him and Stiles couldn’t help but think of quicksand and wonder if there was such thing as quick _mud_ and okay panicking really didn’t help the situation at all.  
  
Finally, Stiles thought maybe it was a good idea to call out for help. Because even if Derek didn’t come, maybe that someone else would.  
  
“Derek?” He croaked. Okay, whatever got in his mouth, _really fucking gross._ He could still taste it. Or thought he could.  
  
He was starting to shiver again. Either from fear of ending up as a bog mummy or actual cold, Stiles couldn’t tell.  
  
“Derek?!” He called out louder.  
  
“Stiles?!” The answering call was faint, but it was definitely there and definitely Derek and Stiles had never been more grateful in his _life_.  
  
“ _Polo!_ ” He called, as loudly as he could.  
  
“Stiles- I told you not to go near this thing!” Derek barked angrily, and Stiles saw his head come into view, haloed by the blue sky around him. More like orange-y. The sun was setting.  
  
Stiles pouted. He’d missed lunch.  
  
“It’s not like I planned on falling down this thing! I really didn’t! I just wanted to see if it was- shutting up.” Stiles sighed. Derek didn’t even have to say it, Stiles knew the look.  
  
“Hold on, I’ll throw you down a rope. Tie it around your waist as tightly as you can and hold on.” Derek ordered.  
  
A moment later, as promised, a thick rope was tossed down. Stiles caught it before it could hit the sludge, not that it mattered, and tied it around his waist as tightly as he could before clutching the rope for dear life.  
  
“You ever climbed a rock wall?” Derek asked, wrapping the rope around his palms and grasping it.  
  
“Uh, once. In elementary school. And then we had to do it in gym once but I never actually got to go.” Stiles cleared his throat. The taste in his mouth- ew ew ew. Not to be a girl about it but it was basically the only thing keeping him company down here, was the grossness.  
  
“Okay. In that case, _try_ not to hit any rocks.”  
  
And Derek started pulling him up, walking backwards. Stiles tried helping, finding footholds as best he could, but there really weren’t any that didn’t make him slip sooner or later, so Stiles soon gave up on that and just tried not to hit the rocks.  
  
It seemed like forever but was probably only a few minutes and Stiles finally had fresh air. It even smelled bad down there. He stumbled over the lip of the well and down the remaining rocks, collapsing on the grass on his hands and knees and gasping for air, trying to ignore the taste in his mouth that was choking him.  
  
“Stiles? Stiles!” And then there was a big hand roughly slapping him between the shoulder blades.  
  
Stiles hacked up the most disgusting ball of he didn’t even want to know what onto the grass. He made a face, stomach rolling, and tried not to look at it anymore.  
  
“Come on.” Derek sighed. “Up. Rope off. Into the house.” Derek crinkled his nose. “Go shower. Towels are under the sink. Your clothes are in the guest room. You smell.” Derek shoved him towards the house surprisingly gently and then turned to look at the well, hands on his hips, a sigh making it through pursed lips.  
  
Stiles did as he was told, though, stripping off the clothes he’d borrowed once he was in the bathroom upstairs next to the guest room and showering. He scrubbed his whole body raw, until his skin burned. He imagined he could still smell whatever it was he’d thrown up and promptly tried not to think about it.  
  
When he got out of the shower and toweled off, he realized he was _freezing._ Figuring it was just because he wasn’t in clothes yet, Stiles went and got dressed in his own clothes ( _thank you thank you thank you thank you_ ) and waited to go back to normal, all snuggled in his favorite sweatshirt.  
  
This made him happy, but he wasn’t getting any warmer. If anything, he was colder. He shivered, hard, and sat down on the bed, confused. He turned his head into his elbow and coughed. No. No no no, he was _not_ getting sick. That was not an option. Not here, not now. Stiles _hated_ being sick. He hated being waited on by his dad, by Scott. He hated feeling like he could do a billion things in his head and then his body refusing to do any of them at all. That, and he would always, _always_ be asleep when he was sick. It seemed that was all he did.  
  
Stiles curled in on himself gradually, barely thinking about it. He was more concerned with how Derek was going to react to having a sick human in his home. More than that, a sick _talkative_ human in his house.  
  
This was a problem that was soon resolved.  
  
Derek appeared in the doorway, took one look at Stiles, sniffed the air once, and sighed again.  
  
“You’re sick.” His expression plainly said _why me._ “Get under the covers, stay here.”  
  
Stiles coughed when he tried to swallow. By the time he regained his breath, Derek was gone, and there was nothing Stiles could do- arguing with someone who wasn’t there didn’t work. So he did as Derek said and got under the covers.  
  
And promptly fell asleep.  
  
-=-  
  
He awoke to a warm hand on his cheek. It moved to his forehead softly, and then to the back of his neck. Stiles smiled- it felt nice. Really nice. The rest of him wasn’t exactly warm but not exactly cold, either. He opened his eyes to see Derek frowning over him, eyebrows knitted together in what appeared to be concern, if Stiles didn’t know any better.  
  
“Don’t look so grumpy, sourwolf.”  
  
The eyebrows shot up.  
  
“Better. Not exactly what I was aiming for, but we can work on i-” And Stiles promptly descended into a coughing fit to rival a howler monkey.  
  
Derek grunted and waited for Stiles to be a boneless, gasping mess, capable of only being able to stare up at the ceiling before rubbing something that smelled like Vic’s on his chest. Stiles let it happen, unsure of what to do with this newfound kindness he was pulling from Derek. It was a little weird, but not unwelcomed. He didn’t know what it was supposed to d- oh. _Oh,_ but that felt nice. It was warm, and caused the warmth to resonate through his chest and down into his belly. It took away the harsh, raw feeling of his throat as he breathed it in. Stiles would never criticize chest rubs again. Derek was looking like he was diffusing a bomb, the most concentrated person on earth. Stiles wanted to reach up and smooth out the wrinkles in his forehead with his thumb.  
  
So he did.  
  
It didn’t occur to him that by threading his fingers through Derek’s hair and resting his palm on the other’s head, by using his thumb to weakly massage the wrinkles out of Derek’s forehead, that that marked the first time he’d ever touched Derek. Otherwise, it had been Derek touching him. But the werewolf seemed to be averse to letting Stiles do anything more than accidentally brush him as he walked by.  
  
And now it didn’t even seem to faze him. He just blinked, relaxed his face, and turned to wipe his hand on a towel nearby. He helped Stiles to sit up, propping him up with pillows before thrusting a mug under his nose.  
  
“Eat.” Came the simple command.  
  
Stiles looked into the mug as he took it. Chicken noodle soup. He could instantly tell it came from a can, but he didn’t even care. It looked pretty damn good right about now. So he ate it, and under Derek’s glare, drank the remaining broth before handing the cup back and wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist.  
  
Derek seemed satisfied, setting the cup aside.  
  
“Just nod yes or no. Do you feel nauseous?” Stiles shook his head a little. “Dizzy?” Stiles nodded. “Hot?” Stiles shook his head. “Cold?” Stiles nodded. And so it went, yes or no questions asked, usually one word, with Stiles trying not to move his head _too_ much, because that sent the room spinning.  
  
“Pretty sure you just have a cold. You were scraped by some of the rocks, but I think I got all of those.” Derek muttered, brows furrowing again as he inspected his work.  
  
Stiles didn’t know how he’d missed it earlier, but he had bandages all over his arms and if he shifted he could feel one or two on his back.  
  
“See? You’re a nice guy.” Seeing the look on Derek’s face, Stiles added- “Deep down.” Same look. “Deep, deep down. _Really_ deep. You’re _sometimes_ a nice guy. In your soul.”  
  
Derek rolled his eyes and scoffed, looking for a moment like he was going to throw his towel at Stiles. But he didn’t, instead helping Stiles to lay back down again.  
  
“You need to rest.” Derek said firmly. “Sleep.” He shut off the light and made to get up.  
  
“Wait.” Stiles blurted in a panic. He’d usually never had a problem like this before. He didn’t know why, but he wanted Derek to stay. “Stay?” He asked, trying to keep the hope out of his voice.  
  
But Derek could smell it on him and they both knew it. Wordlessly, Derek sat back down in his chair, getting comfortable. He blinked, and Stiles noticed that his eyes were blue again. And trained on Stiles.  
  
Somehow, for once, what Stiles found there didn’t unsettle him. He relaxed, shivering only a little under the blankets. He curled up a little, making himself small.  
  
“Derek?”  
  
“Go to sleep, Stiles.”  
  
And that was that.  
  
-=-  
  
Stiles was sick for three days. With vomiting, on the second day. Derek never got frustrated with him, except for when he wouldn’t do ‘what was good for him’ and sleep or rest. Stiles _couldn’t_ sleep if Derek wasn’t in the room. He felt strangely safe with Derek. The guy had had the opportunity to kill him at least a billion times already, and had actively saved his life twice. He trusted Derek now, to say the least.  
  
And it seemed Derek trusted him, too. Stiles awoke in the middle of the night on the third day, half-delirious with fever and aches, and found that Derek had fallen asleep in the chair beside the guest bed. Stiles had reached out a hand, curling his fingers around Derek’s, which rested limply on the other’s knee, and didn’t let go as he fell asleep, even though his fingers became numbingly cold.  
  
He wasn’t sure why he felt so affectionate towards Derek- he was still a big, growly, scary wolf. That didn’t seem to be changing in the foreseeable future. But he was easy to live with, once Stiles got used to the fact that the most electronic item he had access to was a boom box in the living room. Derek never used his laptop, or Stiles never saw him use it. And Stiles’ phone had run out of battery ages ago, and possibly been ruined when he fell in the well. Derek had one, but Stiles had never seen him use that, either, and he only pulled it out once when he was getting ready to change his clothes, and he’d held it in his hand as he left the guest room.  
  
On the fourth day, Stiles recovered. Kind of. He still felt weak and kind of floppy, and definitely like he needed a shower, but Derek said his fever had broken and that the worst was over so suck it up. They’d graduated from actually meaning their insults to trading them mostly playfully back and forth.  
  
Which was fantastic.  
  
Stiles and Derek had an easy rhythm. For some reason, Stiles felt no urge to leave. Maybe it was because Derek was so lonely all the way up here, that he had no one else. And they were kind of friends now, right? Right. Because who could resist being friends with a choice human being such as Stiles? Exactly. Nobody.  
  
Not even sourwolves who scowl far too much at jokes and never tell any themselves.  
  
They had breakfast together, and lunch, if they were both around (sometimes Derek was gone), and Stiles always made dinner. Derek always washed dishes. Sometimes they cooked and washed together, and sometimes Stiles would wake up to cookies out on the counter. Derek made the best cookies.  
  
And he never complained about how many Stiles took.  
  
Stiles explored the woods around the Hale house (though he never went out of sight of the place, too scared of getting lost to do that) and came to know every tree and stream like the back of his hand.  
  
Before he knew it, a month had passed.  
  
Stiles told time in Derek-smiles. They happened about once a week, but with increasing frequency the better Stiles’ bad jokes got. They were always brief, and Derek always ducked his head as though he felt guilty for being amused or happy. Stiles never said anything about that, but he had a feeling Derek had noticed him notice (notiception) and it was just a subject that was too tender to touch. So Stiles didn’t.  
  
Stiles was sipping lemonade and watching Derek fiddle with the saddle from the porch, leaning against the railing and looking interested as Derek smoothed his thumbs over the buckle on the strap.  
  
“What exactly is that even for?” Stiles had to ask. He couldn’t not. It didn’t look like a horse saddle, or like it would ever fit any kind of horse or ever had.  
  
“It’s- ngh- a wolf saddle.” Derek grunted, punching another hole in the strap. “And we’re going to use it.”  
  
“Wait what.” It wasn’t a question. As far as Stiles was concerned, that was so far out of left field it might as well have been in outer space.  
  
“I didn’t stutter.” Derek glared at him briefly before returning to his work. Whatever it was he was trying to do.  
  
“Why do you have it? Isn’t that... I dunno. Demeaning?” Stiles asked tentatively.  
  
“No. It was my father’s. We used them to carry others of our pack- human or otherwise- from place to place.” Derek seemed satisfied finally. “Minivans don’t hold as many werewolves as you think they do, and they’re not very attractive.”  
  
“When exactly are we supposed to try this out?” Stiles asked, taking a sip of his lemonade just for something to do.  
  
“As soon as you’re done with your drink.”  
  
Stiles inhaled lemonade.  
  
He was sent immediately coughing and sneezing and generally being an awkward mess until he was able to wipe his face on the sleeve of his sweatshirt. He looked at Derek, who looked somewhere between laughing his ass off and rolling his eyes at Stiles’ stupidity.  
  
“Are you done, dumbass?” Derek asked in a sort of airy way that Stiles had come to learn was his way of being anywhere near the general vicinity of affectionate.  
  
“Almost, just let me finish hacking up my lungs.” Stiles returned sarcastically.  
  
Derek just went inside. Stiles followed, but whereas Derek went upstairs, Stiles went into the kitchen to wash his hands (lemonade made sticky fingers and Stiles wasn’t going to deal with that any longer than he really had to) and dumped the remainder of his drink down the sink, reflexively washing out his glass and drying it before putting it back. It was something of Derek’s he’d picked up.  
  
When Derek came back downstairs, he was a wolf. And all fluffed up, now that he was dry. Stiles grinned.  
  
“You’re like the real version of Cujo.” He _felt_ Derek scoff at him that time. “No, c’mon, Cujo was cool. I was scared of Cujo for, like, ever. And I only saw five minutes of the movie!”  
  
They walked back outside, Stiles babbling away to cover up his nervousness. Derek stopped by the saddle, looking expectantly at Stiles. Stiles took a deep breath, swallowed, and lifted the unbuckled saddle onto Derek’s back with a huff. It only had one strap, and Stiles doubted that was in any way safe, but he fastened it as tightly as he could anyway. Derek walked away from him then, and Stiles let him, unsure of what Derek wanted him to do now.  
  
Derek did laps around the house, obviously testing out the mobility and whether or not the saddle would slide. But when he stopped in front of Stiles (barely winded, mind you), the saddle was still firmly in place, and Derek appeared satisfied.  
  
He crouched down and waited. Stiles took a last calming breath.  
  
“I’ve never even ridden a horse. You know that, right?” Derek made an impatient noise. “Okay, okay.” Stiles grumbled. “Jeez.”  
  
He swung a leg over Derek and found that there were hidden places where his feet could rest so that his knees were tucked up and his heels almost touched his rear end. The almost-horn at the front provided a good place to hold on. But it was plain that Derek was steering himself, no matter what Stiles did or said, and Stiles realized that that was the difference. That was what made it not demeaning. Derek still had complete control. Probably more than Stiles did.  
  
Stiles found a new respect that day. For what, he wasn’t sure, but he was sure to never forget it. He held on and let Derek walk him around the yard for a while, so they could both get the hang of it. Derek to having a weight on his back and an almost suffocating strap around his ribs, and Stiles to the mostly-smooth gait of a wolf.  
  
He tried leaning over the saddle, so that his nose was almost in the fur at the back of Derek’s neck, and they found that that made their centers of balance more close together, and Derek could move even more freely. Stiles had to straighten up though- he couldn’t stay that way forever. Derek had a lumbering walk that could be almost like a car or a plane in its unchanging glide, but he also had a gait where he did something with his shoulder blades, Stiles was guessing, that caused Stiles’ spine to have to flex in different ways to keep him upright.  
  
Which, while sounding uncomfortable, was actually kind of nice. Especially when his spine cracked, Stiles let out a sound of victory.  
  
“I have been trying to get that to happen for _forever_. Thanks, man.”  
  
Derek just shrugged- which almost unseated Stiles, surprisingly- and then they were taking off into the woods. Derek chose a path that he obviously walked often, because there was undergrowth, but not as much.  
  
Derek made a soft sound and Stiles instinctively curled his fingers harder around the saddle, holding on tightly. And then Derek just _took off._ There was no gradation from a walk to a trot to a run to a sprint- this was straight _bounding_ through the forest. Derek took his own path, going down game trails Stiles could barely follow and leaping over logs and streams. Stiles trusted him implicitly, but he felt the need to grab the oh shit bar several times. There was none. Just the saddle below him.  
  
And Derek didn’t seem to be intent on dropping him or throwing him, and Stiles did indeed stay on through all the twists and turns Derek took them through. Derek didn’t seem to have a clear destination- he was just running. And Stiles couldn’t help but laugh.  
  
There was wind on his face and when they broke into a meadow there was sun on his back, and the deer that had been grazing scattered before them. Derek chased them into the woods, tongue lolling out and tail raised behind Stiles, ears at attention. The deer were glimpses of brown and white amongst the trees, and Stiles wondered if this was what Derek had been doing those few times Stiles had seen him by the road- chasing the deer just to feel _alive._  
  
It was the most fun Stiles had had in a long time. Possibly in his life. He could feel the answering joy coming off of Derek, as much as the other was trying to hide it. It prompted Stiles to let go of the saddle, to live a little, and hold his arms out to his sides, fingers spread and face lifted to the sun, the biggest grin splitting his face.  
  
They soon hit more tree cover, and Stiles was forced to quickly grab onto the saddle again and lower himself down so that his view was framed by the top of Derek’s skull and Derek’s pricked ears. But the grin didn’t come off of his face even when they got home, both of them winded. He helped Derek put away the saddle, this time in the living room instead of in the shed, and even though Derek was _still_ trying to hide it, Stiles saw the smile there.  
  
Stiles made steak that night. Rare, for Derek, because he was so predictable (which had also become a recurring joke.) Derek always took seconds, if there was some. Stiles always felt flattered.  
  
He was especially thrilled when they were having after-dinner-but-before-bed conversation (which usually lasted about five minutes, give or take. Stiles had timed it once.) and Derek snorted and said “Go to your room, Stiles.” to dismiss him.  
  
His room. _Stiles’_ room.  
  
Stiles had bitten back a grin until he’d gotten in _his_ room and closed the door, leaning against it like that time he’d gotten his SAT scores back and they’d been 1790. And that was while he was failing a class already. (Nevermind that that class was Painting and Stiles couldn’t hold a brush to save his life, it was nothing like Culinary class and a slotted spoon. His dad had hugged him so hard Stiles had thought he was going to burst, and said ‘Your mother would be proud’. Stiles hadn’t slept that night.)  
  
And just like that night when his SATs had come, Stiles didn’t sleep this night, either.  
  
-=-  
  
Stiles was doing some routine dusting (because some of these rooms were _incredibly_ dirty) when he came across it. It was an odd little necklace. Made out of rawhide or leather, it looked like, with beads of blue and red around it. Red feathers hung off of it, only two of them, and just in the front. Stiles couldn’t help himself. The way the sunlight shone off the beads, he felt drawn to it.  
  
He touched it.  
  
Everything went black.  
  
-=-  
  
“-iles?! _Stiles?!_ ”  
  
Derek was shaking him. Why was Derek shaking him? And he was shouting. You know, shouting wasn’t all that attractive. It wasn’t like Stiles had done anything _wrong_. Right? He was a clutz, but he wasn’t _that_ bad. He hadn’t broken a single one of Derek’s rules yet. Not that there were a lot, but with so many temptations, it was a good record.  
  
“STILES!”  
  
“Whassup?”  
  
It was the best he could manage, giving that both his head and his tongue felt like cotton.  
  
“Jesus Christ.” Derek breathed, pulling Stiles to his chest and crushing him there in what Stiles assumed was supposed to be a hug but really just kind of made it hard to breathe and jammed the feather duster between them.  
  
“Derek. Derek. Choking, not breathing.” Stiles reminded him in a strangled voice.  
  
Derek’s arms immediately loosened, and Stiles took in a deep, grateful gasp of air.  
  
 _Did he touch it?_ Derek asked, and if Stiles didn’t know better, he’d say Derek had been panicking.  
  
“Yeah, I touched it. M’okay though. Sorry.” Stiles sat up entirely, slowly, groaning and rubbing his temples.  
  
Derek’s hands were flitting around Stiles, as though he really didn’t know what to do with them or where to put them. He finally settled on Stiles’ shoulders, which worked for Stiles. He didn’t feel as wobbly with Derek holding onto him like that. Stiles looked up at Derek, trying to judge whether or not he was angry. Still mysteriously concerned.  And a little awed, if Stiles wasn’t under the influence of a concussion of some kind.  
  
“What?” Stiles asked. “Never seen a guy randomly swoon before?” He grinned.  
  
“I didn’t ask you if you touched it, Stiles.” Derek said quietly, looking at the necklace.  
  
“Uh, yeah. You did. I remember, I was there.” Stiles took his turn to be baffled.  
  
“No, Stiles. I _thought_ it.” Derek was frowning again.  
  
“I totally heard you, dude. Just like you’re talking to me right now.” Stiles felt that a little _okay-now-you’re-the-crazy-one_ was in order.  
  
“You heard my _thought_ , Stiles. That’s what that necklace does.” Derek picked up the necklace, which had come to be on the floor somehow, and held it gingerly. “It’s supposed to be for pack- in case we need to cover long distances.”  
  
“What, like, phone calls?” Stiles’ head was starting to feel not as fuzzy.  
  
“I guess you could look at it that way. But it’s not supposed to _keep_ working.” Derek frowned.  
  
“Well I can’t hear your thoughts right _now_.” Stiles informed.  
  
“I know. Because I’m blocking you.” Derek said it so matter-of-factly that Stiles was neither surprised nor offended.  
  
“So it only works with pack?” Stiles asked.  
  
Derek gave a short nod.  
  
“I’m your pack!” Stiles could have gotten up and danced a polka.  
  
Derek did not appear so thrilled. Not that Stiles took much notice, he was too excited. He was part of Derek’s pack. His _pack_. It was Stiles’ birthday- like Christmas come early. Derek sighed and scowled.  
  
“Just- don’t touch it anymore. And stop getting into so much trouble.” Derek said, standing. He looked like he wanted to add a comment about there being too much stress associated with one person, but Stiles had heard just about every comment there was to make already, and Derek knew it, so he walked away.  
  
Stiles had gotten his bearings back and stood, dusting himself off with the feather duster because he could and the feathers were soft against his skin. Whoever started that thing on cartoons about feathers being able to tickle people was wrong- Stiles had only ever been able to make himself sneeze with one.  
  
He finished cleaning and ate lunch. Derek was nowhere to be found. Even as Stiles hung out the back door and called ‘dinner!’ as loudly as he could. Stiles ate his share alone, which felt weird now that he was so used to Derek being there across from him and saved the rest, covering it and putting it in the stove, to keep it warm.  
  
Stiles went to bed with an uneasy feeling in his gut.  
  
-=-  
  
When he went downstairs the next morning, Derek was at the kitchen table, eating Cheerios and reading the box like every morning, like nothing had happened. Stiles opened his mouth to ask and just shook his head, exhaling a sigh and fetching his own breakfast. Derek never volunteered and explanation and soon enough, Stiles found he was content without one, if still a little worried.  
  
After breakfast, Derek and he used the saddle again. This time, Derek took him to a lake, where Stiles promptly slid off the big wolf, helped him take the saddle off, and stripped down to his boxers before jumping into the water. It was _freezing_ cold; even though it was spring, the water felt like winter. Stiles was no wimp, though, and did his best to get Derek to join him.  
  
The wolf stayed on the muddy shore, laying down in the driest spot he could find and putting his head on his paws. He watched Stiles try to sneak up on waterfowl, snorting as it backfired and Stiles was swimming away as fast as he could towards Derek because no animal dared get close to _him_. Derek looked very sagely sitting there, laughing at Stiles’ misfortune.  
  
At some point, Stiles tried splashing Derek. The wolf was having none of it, and for his size, danced nimbly away from any and all flying water. Stiles pouted.  
  
The sun was high in the sky before Stiles had tired himself out. He dragged himself back to shore, sodden underwear clinging to his skin and hanging low on his hips. Stiles didn’t even _care_ , he just wanted to rest.  
  
There were little black things on his feet and Stiles realized belatedly that they were leeches.  
  
Insert freaking out here.  
  
Derek eventually got him to calm down and stand still. He stood in front of Stiles and, just as daintily as he had once grabbed Stiles’ sweatshirt, he pulled off the leeches one by one. It was painful, but they came off pretty easily. Not that Stiles had much to compare it to.  
  
Stiles redressed in his dry clothes, warmed by the sun, shivering in delight. He wasn’t exactly dry, his clothes sticking to his skin, and his boxers were still soaked and creating embarrassing wet patches on his jeans, but Stiles didn’t care.  
  
Derek took a more relaxed pace through the woods on the way back, and Stiles was okay with that. He stroked his fingers rhythmically through the fur at Derek’s neck, smiling to himself and listening to the wind in the trees and the small animals that fled before them. Derek lifted his head to sniff the air sometimes, but never appeared worried or concerned.  
  
The more they spent time doing that- running around the woods in the saddle, the closer they became. Stiles wouldn’t pretend to know anything about Derek’s past- he had yet to find any pictures of Derek’s family, and there didn’t appear to be any kind of journal or diary to read. But it brought them closer physically. Derek welcomed touches from Stiles more readily- a tap on the shoulder to get his attention, the brush of hands as they passed things between each other, shoulders and thighs touching when they flopped on the couch together.  
  
But tonight was different. Derek seemed to have taken Stiles to the lake to purposely tire him out. Stiles only figured that out when Derek was practically tucking him into bed. Mostly this consisted of lurking around as Stiles slid in between the blankets.  
  
“Derek?” Stiles let the ‘what’s up’ linger in the air.  
  
“Go to sleep, Stiles. And don’t go outside tomorrow.” And with that, Derek left him.  
  
Stiles was not so tired that he didn’t ponder the meaning of that. But his brain was muddled and fuzzy, and he gave up and fell asleep to the first howls that permeated the darkened sky outside. The full moon spilled silently into the room.  
  
-=-  
  
There was blood. There was so much blood. It covered Stiles up to the elbows as he pressed a towel to Derek’s side.  
  
“You can’t do this to me, man, this isn’t fair, we were on the road to friendship- c’mon, Derek, please.” Stiles begged, watching as Derek struggled to pull in breath after ragged breath through lips that were too pale.  
  
All of Derek was too pale. Stiles’ heart was pounding and he was panicking. Derek was laying on the lawn, a deep gouge in his side. He wasn’t healing. Stiles had seen him heal before- super duper fast. But this wasn’t the same. Derek wasn’t okay and Stiles didn’t know what to do.  
  
“Stiles-” Derek looked like a fish out of water. Stiles would have laughed if it weren’t so serious, if adrenaline wasn’t rushing through his veins. “ _Breathe._ ”  
  
But Stiles _couldn’t_ because Derek _wasn’t_. He pressed harder on the wound, trying to hold Derek’s insides, well, _inside_ while Derek’s body worked as fast as it could. But there was so much blood, so much...  
  
Derek’s hand weakly rose up, his fingers threading through Stiles’ hair, his palm on Stiles’ head, his thumb smoothing out the wrinkles between Stiles’ eyebrows. Stiles gave a strangled sob. Derek kept stroking his hair, not making any sound whatsoever as his body undulated in pain. The cords on his neck were standing out- he was being silent for Stiles. It only made Stiles cry harder.  
  
Stiles didn’t know how this had happened. He’d awoken to the sounds of a fight. As he looked out of the window, another wolf had bounded away into the woods, leaving Derek to die on the grass. Stiles saw the blood, grabbed a towel, and ran outside to try and help.  
  
And now he was scared Derek might not make it.  
  
Derek’s breathing seemed to have leveled out, though. Stiles began to talk. He just talked and talked, and Derek’s hand stayed in his hair, and Stiles didn’t stop until the early morning light peeked through the trees and his throat was hoarse. Derek was trying to get up, but Stiles forced him to lay back down on the grass. He didn’t want Derek to strain himself and make it worse.  
  
But he couldn’t stop Derek from pushing the towel away. What Stiles saw amazed him. Derek’s flesh still bled sluggishly, but it was nowhere near as life-threatening as it had been. Derek panted, finally letting his hand slip from Stiles’ hair down to his back limply.  
  
“Oh my god.” Stiles said weakly.  
  
He forced his arms under Derek’s neck, pulling him into a hug and sitting up. Derek grunted, keeping one arm around Stiles and putting the other hand to his side.  
  
 _I’m okay. I’m okay._  
  
Stiles heard it in his head, but it was as real as if Derek had whispered it to him. Stiles hugged Derek tightly and refused to let go for a long time. Only the growling of both of their stomachs and Derek’s mental insistence that he was okay chased them inside. Stiles pulled one of Derek’s arms around his shoulders and helped the hobbled werewolf into the house. Derek let out a dismayed sound (pulling a shaky smile from Stiles) when they bypassed the kitchen.  
  
“Oh no, man. Your turn to get doctored.” Stiles sniffed, the remaining tears falling down his cheeks before he could stop them.  
  
Derek didn’t say anything as they shouldered their way into his room. Stiles laid him down on the bed, licking his lips nervously as he backed away. He still had Derek’s blood on his arms, all down his front- he didn’t want to leave Derek alone.  
  
“Go clean up.” Derek grunted, making himself comfortable with a scowl that Stiles knew to be just for show.  
  
Stiles shook his head. “Stay here, then, because breakfast is coming to you this morning.”  
  
Stiles left hesitantly, going and getting undressed in the bathroom and scrubbing his arms and under his nails furiously in the sink. There was no time for a real shower. He made Derek grits, trying to keep it easy on Derek’s newly formed innards. Stiles almost gagged just thinking about it.  
  
He made his way upstairs, turning into Derek’s room. He didn’t notice anything wrong until he was up close. Derek was clean. Too clean. And no longer missing all of his clothes.  
  
Stiles glared accusingly, and Derek looked up innocently in return. Stiles gave a long-suffering sigh.  
  
“If you’re well enough to clean up, then you’re well enough to sit up by yourself.” Stiles said, but he helped Derek to sit up, anyway.  
  
Derek insisted on holding the bowl himself, despite how hot it was, and ate as he always did- eyes on his food, save for the occasional glance at Stiles. Stiles sat quietly, millions of questions buzzing around his head and no good way to ask any of them or any good one to start with.  
  
“Spit it out.” Derek demanded, his mouth full. He swallowed. “You’re annoying.”  
  
“I know, it’s part of my charm.” Stiles said automatically.  
  
He hesitated a little more. So far, Derek had tolerated his presence here. He’d accepted Stiles even as pack, it seemed. He wasn’t such a bad guy, just a loner who didn’t really care to have any kind of social life or even any social skills.  
  
If Derek was human, Stiles couldn’t help but think that they wouldn’t have this problem. Beacon Hills was so... close-minded.  
  
Derek was giving him a Look, eyebrows and all, so Stiles took a deep breath.  
  
“Who was it that attacked you? I didn’t know any other wolves hung around here.” Stiles kept his eyes on his hands in his lap. “I saw them from upstairs, my window. I don’t think they knew I was watching, they didn’t really look up or back or anything.” He swallowed, chancing a glance at Derek.  
  
But Derek wasn’t looking at him. He was staring off into space, as if lost in memory. Stiles waited surprisingly patiently for an answer- he didn’t want to overwhelm Derek with the eleventy-hundred questions he had.  
  
“That was my uncle. Peter.” Derek sent Stiles a sharp look. “If you ever see him again, run. As a human, well. You’ll know it’s him.” Derek was growling lowly in his chest.  
  
“Why doesn’t he live here?” Stiles blurted out. “I mean, I know obviously you two aren’t on the best of terms right now, but it wasn’t always that way, right?”  
  
Derek grimaced, and even though Stiles had to wait for several minutes, he answered.  
  
“I didn’t know he was even alive until last night.” Derek murmured. “No. It wasn’t always that way.” He exhaled.  
  
Stiles swallowed. This was the mother of all awkward conversations. But there was emotion there for Derek- something raw and open, something that was old and had festered like a sore until now, where it was exposed, desperate and painful in the light. Stiles reached out- couldn’t help it. No one should have to go through that alone- and put a hand on Derek’s shoulder.  
  
Derek looked at it and then away. Stiles didn’t move.  
  
“What happened here, Derek?” Stiles prompted quietly.  
  
“A fire.” Derek croaked.  
  
Stiles suddenly remembered the rumors. The talk. Kate Argent had gotten overzealous when she was young one day and decided that the threat of werewolves was too much before going up to the Hale house with a few others. They’d blocked up the entrances and exits and set the whole house on fire.  
  
It was a slaughter.  
  
Derek didn’t look at him, finishing off his breakfast and setting the bowl aside. Stiles squeezed his shoulder.  
  
“My sister and I got out. So did Peter. But he was hurt- on fire when they pulled him out. And then he just disappeared. We thought he was dead. And now Laura’s gone, so now-”  
  
Derek choked. Stiles could tell that it was the most about the incident that he had ever said.  
  
“Okay. Okay, I’m here, Derek.” What else could he say? ‘I’m sorry’? ‘It’s okay’?  
  
Apologizing seemed insufficient, and it wasn’t okay. Nothing could make it okay, either. Stiles knew that from when his mom died. From when it was his fault.  
  
“Before she died, Laura and I rebuilt the house. It’s her design, her paint, her furniture, everything.” Derek swallowed and shook his head.  
  
“Okay.” Stiles didn’t want Derek to push himself to say more than he really wanted to. “Okay. Let me take care of this-” He made to stand up with the bowl, but Derek grabbed his wrist.  
  
“Stay.” He asked softly.  
  
Stiles sat back down.  
  
-=-  
  
He was half asleep, hovering somewhere between wakefulness and slumber, head nodding onto his chest and hands hanging limply between his thighs. Stiles didn’t remember falling asleep. But when he opened his eyes, it was late afternoon. Derek was sleeping, too. He looked exhausted, face drawn and tight. His brows were furrowed. Stiles, without thinking, reached out and stroked Derek’s hair.  
  
The lines on his face smoothed out. Stiles smiled fondly.  
  
He’d barely realized how much affection he’d come to feel for Derek. And lust. There was both there. Derek was _hot_ with a penchant for going without a shirt or in the tiniest tank top ever, what was Stiles _supposed_ to think?  
  
He pulled his hand away slowly after that, moving Derek’s bed clothes away and checking on the wound. It was a puckered pink scar now. Stiles touched it gently with his fingers. It was much hotter than the rest of Derek’s body. Probably because of all the healing mojo happening there. Stiles nodded, satisfied, and got up. He stretched, languid and pleased, before going downstairs to rustle something up to eat.  
  
He never saw Derek come in with groceries or go out with trash. Stiles had no idea how those things got taken care of.  
  
But they did, and Stiles guessed that was all that mattered.  
  
He ended up making a salad that he was sure Derek would turn his nose up at but felt good to make and some hamburgers to compensate for that.  
  
What he didn’t count on was Derek smelling the cooking meat and coming downstairs anyway.  
  
“On the couch, mister.” Stiles scolded, wrinkling his nose at Derek.  
  
Derek blinked blearily at him, looking only half-awake himself. His hair was pressed flat on one side, and the other side had it sticking up in literally every direction known to man. Stiles snickered. Derek looked at him like he had no idea what Stiles was laughing at, nor did he think that Stiles had any right to be laughing at anything at all, before shuffling to the couch and from the sounds of it, collapsing on it.  
  
Stiles laughed quietly to himself and hummed as he served Derek up a plate with as little salad as he used to give his dad.  
  
His dad.  
  
Stiles swallowed, shaking his head. His dad must be going nuts. Not knowing if his son was still even alive, probably thinking that Stiles had been torn to pieces... He felt guilt hit him like a train. He hadn’t even _tried_ to call. Or anything at all since he’d been here.  
  
“St’les?” Derek grunted from the living room. “Thought I was th’ brooding one.” It sounded as though it was muffled into a pillow.  
  
Stiles snorted.  
  
“You can’t have all the fun all the time, Sourwolf.”  
  
He took Derek’s plate to him, taking one look at the way the werewolf was lying on the couch and then setting it on his stomach. Derek had his head on the arm of the couch, face covered by a pillow obviously meant to block the light, one arm over his chest the other dangling towards the floor. And, setting the plate on Derek’s stomach was kind of a bit of an excuse to touch Derek’s fantastic abs.  
  
Stiles watched as Derek looked up, removing the pillow from his face. He looked down at the plate, and then up at Stiles. There was a look on his face that Stiles couldn’t read. And Stiles had become well-versed in Derek-expression-language. But the look passed, and Stiles was left dazed and confused.  
  
“Hey, Derek?” Stiles questioned, fidgeting as he tried to figure out what to say, or at least how to say it.  
  
Derek looked up, eyebrow raised. He was already, impossibly, half-done with his burger.  
  
“You said it was okay if I left.” Derek froze. “Would it be okay if I came back?” Stiles asked, and while he was scared, he kept his eyes on Derek.  
  
“I don’t see why not.” Derek relaxed, resumed eating.  
  
Stiles relaxed, too, grinning to himself.  
  
“You don’t mind me living here? Really?” He had to make sure he wasn’t dreaming.  
  
“If I minded, I would have said so.” Derek grunted, scowling. Stiles still wasn’t offended.  
  
“I might end up being gone for a while. My dad and Scott and school and stuff.” Stiles didn’t know why he was pushing like this.  
  
“I know.” Derek shrugged. “It’s better that way.”  
  
Stiles was confused by that.  
  
“Peter.” Derek amended, almost hurriedly. “So you won’t have to meet Peter.”  
  
Right. Big scary dangerous werewolf for _real_. Maybe that was what happened to the people who never came back. They met Peter instead of Derek. Stiles shuddered- he had a hard time imagining what that was like. Derek wasn’t that scary (only sometimes, when you touched his stuff) when you got to know him. But Stiles wouldn’t touch Peter with a thirty-nine-and-a-half foot pole.  
  
“Thanks.” Stiles said after a moment.  
  
-=-  
  
Derek offered to give him a ride into town (in the Camero- Stiles had asked) but Stiles declined. He didn’t want to give anyone any sort of ammunition to use against Derek, and he certainly didn’t want anyone to know what kind of car Derek drove.  
  
Stiles dressed in the clothes he’d come in, and he rode in the saddle to the edge of the wood. They stopped when they could see the town through the trees in the early morning light. Stiles hesitated.  
  
“So this is goodbye?” Stiles asked, trying to make a joke.  
  
Derek huffed a sigh. _Just get off._  
  
The thought sounded good natured, though. Stiles slid off, turning to face Derek. He’d worn the necklace all the way out here, and he was preparing to give it back. Derek just shook his head.  
  
 _Keep it._ Derek’s eyes twinkled. _It’ll be like our phone._  
  
Derek shoved his head into Stiles’ arms, humming in his throat. Stiles laughed and ruffled Derek’s fur, scratching behind his ears.  
  
“Okay, okay. If I don’t go now, I never will. See you later.” Stiles grinned.  
  
Derek nudged him away. Stiles started walking, feeling warm. When he looked back, Derek was gone. Stiles reached up to touch the necklace.  
  
 _Okay, no, you hang up._ Stiles thought towards Derek.  
  
No answer.  
  
 _You weren’t actually supposed to hang up. Haven’t you ever seen an old movie?_ Can _you hang up with this thing?_ Stiles mused.  
  
 _Stiles?_ Definitely Derek. Stiles put an extra bounce to his step, even though Derek sounded like he was going to drown kittens when he got home.  
  
 _Yes, Dere-bear?_  
  
 _One. Never call me that again. Two. Shut. Up._  
  
Stiles laughed.  
  
It was a long walk home, and business hours were just starting. It occurred to Stiles that he didn’t even know what day it was. When he reached his house, he was disappointed to find his dad’s car not in the driveway. He had to climb up the tree to his bedroom and break into his own house. You’d think a Sheriff would have a burglar alarm. The Stilinskis did not.  
  
Nothing in his room had changed. Absolutely nothing. It was a little dustier, maybe, but his bed was still unmade and clothes were still on the floor. It didn’t look like the Sheriff had even been in here, and if he’d looked in the room at all it had been from the doorway.  
  
Stiles cursed his vivid imagination.  
  
He hid the necklace under his shirt- he could explain everything else to his dad, but not this. This was different. Private.  
  
Without anything to do until his dad got home, Stiles tidied up his room. Cleaning kept him occupied, made him feel a little more sure. He wasn’t certain as to why. Maybe because his mom liked to clean, too. Not that she’d passed that on to Stiles- hell no- but it reminded him of her.  
  
The living room and kitchen were, unsurprisingly, not that clean. Stiles’ guilt returned with renewed force when he saw how many alcohol bottles there were in the trash. He should have told his dad that he was alive sooner.  
  
Well. No time like the present.  
  
Stiles made himself some lunch and felt the lack of Derek’s presence like an ache. The necklace didn’t count as Derek being there.  
  
Speaking of which, Stiles was starting to have theories about the necklace. Either it had a mind of its own, or Derek could control the flow of thoughts, to choose when the connection was open or closed. He was glad, and even a little relieved that they couldn’t hear all of each other’s thoughts all day long. But he was also starting to get the sneaking suspicion that though they couldn’t hear each other’s thoughts, they could feel each other’s emotion. If he concentrated, he could feel Derek’s frustration.  
  
 _What’s up, Sourwolf?_ Stiles teased.  
  
 _You need to come back._ Derek sounded like he was giving his most hardcore scowl.  
  
 _Why?_ Stiles felt a little panicked. What if Peter had made a second appearance, and Derek was all alone?  
  
 _I burned the spaghetti._  
  
Stiles breathed a sigh of relief, laughing a little. That was all.  
  
 _I left you sandwiches in the fridge. There should be some corned beef in there._ Stiles snorted.  
  
 _Bless you._ Derek sounded more than relieved.  
  
 _I’m awesome, I know._ Stiles smirked.  
  
There was radio silence for a while.  
  
 _Stiles, how many sandwiches did you make?_  
  
 _Enough so that you don’t eat Cheerios for every meal._  
  
Stiles was a little embarrassed. So maybe that last day he’d gone a little overboard. He’d had a lot of free time and he didn’t know when he’d be back. And he worried. If Derek ate Cheerios and burned macaroni, he was way worse off than Stiles’ dad. And he liked making stuff for Derek.  
  
 _Don’t eat it all at once._ Stiles teased when Derek didn’t say anything.  
  
But Derek had gone silent. Stiles was okay with that- it felt amiable. He realized that he’d been staring off into space too long and shook himself, moving to the couch. Television was a blessing. He was going to have to buy Derek a working one. Or take Derek into a store a few towns over and make him buy one for himself.  
  
Watching all of his shows, catching up, made him sort of forget where he’d been for the past two months. So when his dad walked through the door, it was perfectly natural to turn and say,  
  
“I’m making lasagna. No beer tonight.”  
  
The Sheriff seemed frozen. Just staring at Stiles like he was seeing a ghost. Stiles got up.  
  
“Hey, dad.” He said a little weakly. Because holy shit, two whole months.  
  
“Stiles.” And then his dad was across the room, holding him tightly, tucking Stiles’ face into his shoulder and just _holding on._ “Stiles.” He choked out again.  
  
“I’m here, dad, you’re not dreaming or anything, I’m here.” Stiles comforted, letting them sway together before trying to pull away.  
  
The sheriff still held him by his shoulders, looking at him.  
  
“How did you...?” He asked finally. Stiles didn’t mind.  
  
“He’s actually a really nice guy, dad.” Stiles grinned brightly. “I mean, when you get passed the brooding and the eyebrows.” He waggled his own, as if to make a point. “And he can’t cook for _anything_. I’m more scared of him poisoning himself than killing anyone else.” Stiles shook his head with an over-dramatic sigh.  
  
Sheriff Stilinski had his _I do not believe a word you say_ face on. Stiles tried not to be miffed.  
  
“And he just... let you go?”  
  
“Yes.” Stiles nodded.  
  
“And you expect me to believe that?” The sheriff rose an eyebrow.  
  
“ _Yes_!”  
  
There was a dubious look.  
  
“He offered to drive me here, dad. And he said that mostly the whole tributes business is really annoying. He doesn’t want to eat people- he just wants to be left alone.” Stiles shrugged.  
  
“What about the people we sent out there? The ones that didn’t make it?” Sheriff Stilinski accused with hard eyes.  
  
“He’s kind of got this uncle...” Stiles trailed off, going for innocent.  
  
His dad’s eyes bugged.  
  
“Did you meet him?! Was he there?!”  
  
“No- no, dad. But we think he sorta lurks in the woods, and sometimes people you send- they meet him instead.” Stiles shifted awkwardly. He felt sick thinking about it even now.  
  
“We?” The sheriff’s eyebrows knitted together with a frown. Disapproving. Stiles had seen that look way too often.  
  
“Derek and me.” Stiles chirped. “I’m going back, dad. He needs my help.” He said firmly. “I just came back to do some school stuff and let you know I haven’t been eaten. You can come up any time.”  
  
“No, Stiles.” Evidently, the Sheriff also wasn’t budging on this.  
  
“Dad-”  
  
“You’re sixteen, Stiles! You’re not going!”  
  
Stiles gave a frustrated, angry noise. He wanted to be where Derek was. Now that he knew- he hated the thought of Derek being all alone up there, waiting for him to come back. Nevermind that this totally wasn’t the way he’d thought the day was going to go.  
  
He knew that his dad wouldn’t move on this and would have Stiles tailed if he thought his son was really going to disobey him. So it looked like he was, at some point, going to have some cops to lose.  
  
Stiles stormed away to his room, ignoring his dad yelling up the stairs after him.  
  
Ah, just like old times.  
  
He snarled to himself and slammed his door shut, collapsing on his bed. The necklace dug into his skin, but Stiles didn’t feel like moving and taking it off was not an option.  
  
 _I thought I was the brooding one._  
  
 _You can’t have all the fun all the time, Sourwolf._  
  
Stiles felt some deja-vu.  
  
 _What happened?_  
  
 _My dad. Thrilled to see me, not so thrilled to know where I’ve been._ Stiles sighed, burying his face in his pillow.  
  
 _Take all the time you need._  
  
Derek seemed like he wanted to say more, but again, Stiles was left with silence. He didn’t mind. He didn’t feel like talking anyway.  
  
-=-  
  
Stiles made it to school the next day (a Wednesday, funnily enough) and was bombarded by questions. From Scott and Allison, from people he didn’t even know. Stiles said as little as possible. He wanted to keep his experience with Derek, however short, to himself. He wore the necklace under his shirt but he didn’t call out to Derek. It wasn’t that bad, if a little shocking to spend no time with anyone but one person and suddenly go to many people all at once. He had to excuse himself at lunch and find a place just to _breathe_.  
  
Scott demanded to play videogames the moment Stiles was free, but he had two months of homework to catch up on. Stiles was up until midnight and he still wasn’t done. Teaching himself how to do a lot of algebra was not easy nor painless. Stiles dreamed a dreamless sleep those first few nights back.  
  
But he eventually got it all done and his grades didn’t suffer too badly, and people stopped asking him what the big bad wolf wanted. Stiles soon found himself wondering after Derek. Except for the first day, Stiles hadn’t spoken to him at all. It had been a week. Somehow, Stiles wasn’t worried.  
  
Another week. The weekend came and Stiles was more than happy to spend the time playing Modern Warfare with Scott in his bedroom.  
  
 _Open the window._  
  
Stiles jumped and was killed; Scott laughed.  
  
 _Kind of a bad time here, dude. Got company._  
  
 _I don’t care. Open your window._  
  
Stiles paused the game, much to the indignation of Scott, and went to open his window. No sooner had he done so than Derek swung himself inside. He landed silently, catlike. Scott was gaping.  
  
Stiles was hit with how especially attractive Derek was looking. He had seen the worn leather jacket on a peg by the door often, but he’d never seen Derek wearing it. It looked really good on him. _Really_ good. Illegal-to-be-that-attractive good.  
  
“What are you doing here?! Not that I’m not glad to see you but someone else could have!” Stiles’ voice went squeaky with his bafflement.  
  
“I needed to see you.” Derek said. “No one did.” He looked even more serious than usual. He glanced at Scott and then back to Stiles. “Peter’s here.”  
  
“What do you mean, in town?” Stiles asked, confused.  
  
“No, Stiles. He’s _in your house._ ” Derek hissed back.  
  
Just then, Stiles’ bedroom door imploded. Scott yelped and skittered out of the way. Stiles was suddenly extremely grateful that his father wasn’t around. Derek’s big arm hit him in the chest, shoving him behind Derek as the werewolf lowered himself into a defensive position.  
  
The man who walked through the door was nothing like what Stiles was expecting. He was expecting someone who looked like he’d just come out of living in the woods for six years- wild hair and tattered clothes, if any, and grubby appearance. But this man was nothing like that. He was clean, well put together; classy, even. Stiles gaped.  
  
Derek didn’t look impressed or surprised, growling lowly in his chest and baring big fangs at Peter. Stiles started to be a little afraid. Scott definitely was.  
  
Peter moved fast. Much too fast for Stiles to follow. Peter grabbed Scott, eyes flashing red.  
  
“No!” Derek snarled, launching at Peter just as the Alpha bit down on Scott.  
  
Scott was tossed away immediately after, brand new bite mark on his arm. Derek and Peter fell to wrestling each other, snarling and biting and clawing. Stiles and Scott could do nothing more than huddle behind Stiles’ bed and hope the fighting didn’t come to them.  
  
Derek and Peter broke apart, completely wolfed-out. Stiles’ room was a wreck. Derek was injured, badly. Peter looked hurt, but he was healing. Derek wasn’t.  
  
Without warning, Peter leapt over Derek (Derek’s claws raking down Peter’s stomach) and left through Stiles’ window. The moment he was gone, Stiles slammed the window shut and locked it. Like that was going to stop him from coming back.  
  
“Derek?!”  
  
Derek had transformed back and was hunched over, holding his upper arm. Blood was seeping through his fingers.  
  
“I’m fine.” He rasped. “I’m fine. Check on your friend.”  
  
Scott had completely passed out. The bite mark on his arm wasn’t bleeding.  
  
“He’s fine, too.” Stiles went to Derek, touching him, looking over his wounds. “We have bandages in the bathroom. Go get cleaned up, I’ll take care of Scott.”  
  
“So that’s Scott.” Derek mused.  
  
Stiles shoved him out of the room. He somehow managed to get Scott on the bed- poor Scott. Stiles hadn’t been expecting to drag him into this. Although whatever ‘this’ was, Stiles had a feeling that they had only begun to find out. He’d have to explain everything to Scott when he woke up.  
  
When, not if. Stiles knew werewolf bites could kill, but not Scott. It was absolutely impossible. Scott was his best friend. Of course he’d survive. No. Other. Option.  
  
Stiles still fretted enough that he had to clean just to stop himself from having a panic attack by focusing on something else. Derek soon returned and started to help him, all of the broken and ruined things gathering in a pile by the door and everything salvageable being put back into their proper places. They didn’t talk the whole time. With two working in tandem, it didn’t take as long as Stiles thought it would.  
  
Finally, they both stood staring at Scott, who was still dead to the world on Stiles’ bed.  
  
“How do we explain this to him?” Stiles asked, mouth dry.  
  
Derek looked at him.  
  
“How do we explain this to my _dad_?!”  
  
Derek shrugged.  
  
-=-  
  
Derek stayed until the Sheriff got home, at which point he bailed through the window. Stiles and he had agreed that it was best to go slowly. And that meeting Stiles’ father might involve a shotgun or a pistol pointed in Derek’s direction and nobody wanted that. So Stiles watched over Scott (not that he was showing any signs of change _whatsoever_ ) and waited for his dad to come up the stairs and the inevitable ‘what the hell happened here?!’  
  
This did indeed happen. To a T. Stiles prided himself on the ability to predict what his dad would say to him. He prided himself on a lot of things.  
  
Needless to say, Mr. Stilinski did not take the news that not one, but _two_ werewolves had been in his house very well. Stiles tried to be as calm and collected about it as he could, but the only thing that settled okay with him in this whole situation was that Derek had protected them at his own expense.  
  
Stiles was grounded for a month. He thought this was a little harsh, since none of it was his fault, really, but he didn’t argue, lest he lengthen his sentence.  
  
Scott was staying the night, so Stiles took the floor next to the bed. He spent a long time sleeplessly watching as car lights slid across his ceiling and back wall.  
  
 _You okay?_ He sent.  
  
Because he hadn’t heard from Derek since he left. And he was a little of a lot worried.  
  
 _I’m fine. He didn’t get me too badly._  
  
 _Liar._ Stiles frowned into his pillow.  
  
He could practically feel the scowl on the other end.  
  
 _Any idea why he was even here?_ Stiles decided to just keep going.  
  
 _I think he did see you that night. I think he knows something we don’t. He wasn’t trying to kill you today, or Scott. He was sending a message._  
  
Stiles didn’t try to hide how much that scared him.  
  
 _Will you be okay alone and stuff?_  
  
 _I’m twenty-three, Stiles. Not five._  
  
 _Right. Well, mister tough guy- my window’s always open._  
  
 _Go to sleep, Stiles._ It sounded almost fond.  
  
 _Night, Dere-bear._  
  
 _Don’t call me that._ Annoyed, but not angry.  
  
Stiles grinned and rolled over. Sleep came soon after.  
  
-=-  
  
Everything sped up in the next few months. Stiles had school, had to explain to Scott his newfound werewolf-ness. It was a conversation that was rife with repetition and awkwardness. But Stiles convinced Scott to search out Derek and get his help in adjusting to it. But he refused to go without Stiles, and Stiles was grounded, and school- so Stiles had to help Scott through his first full moon as best he could. Despite Stiles’ offer of the window, Derek did not make an appearance. Nor did they talk. While Stiles was sure nothing was wrong, the silence still made him feel uncomfortable.  
  
Finally, _finally_ , they were able to get away. Stiles tried talking to Derek with the necklace to get him to meet them, but he got no answer. Not until they were at the edge of the wood.  
  
 _Stiles?_  
  
 _Finally! I thought you’d never pick up. Where are you, we need your help._  
  
 _I’m on my way._  
  
They didn’t have to wait long. A big black wolf came bounding out of the trees to the side of the road. He was wearing the saddle. Derek shoved his head into Stiles’ arms, sniffing his chest and rubbing his big cheeks all over Stiles. Stiles couldn’t stop a laugh at Derek’s doggish joy at seeing him. Derek, done with greeting, rested his head on Stiles’ shoulder with a heavy sigh.  
  
“I missed you too, big guy.” Stiles scratched the fur of Derek’s neck and ears, grinning stupidly.  
  
Derek snorted and probably rolled his eyes, though Stiles couldn’t see.  
  
“Uh- guys?” Scott poked Stiles’ shoulder.  
  
Derek growled. Stiles stroked his neck to try and calm him.  
  
“Shouldn’t we get off the road?” Scott suggested.  
  
“Good idea.” Stiles chirped.  
  
He swung up into the saddle, not needing Derek to crouch down. He’d been practicing. Once he was settled comfortably, Stiles remembered exactly how good it felt. He curled his fingers in Derek’s fur.  
  
 _Can he keep up? Shift?_ Derek asked, tilting his head so bright blue eyes looked up and back at Stiles.  
  
“He wants to know if you can shift.” Stiles translated. “So we don’t leave you in the dust.”  
  
Scott nodded, flushing. “Can you, uh, look away? Clothes.” Scott explained.  
  
Stiles snickered. “We’ve seen each other naked before, Scott.” But Stiles closed his eyes anyway. Not that he needed to- Derek had turned all the way around, so both their backs were to Scott.  
  
 _What, jealous, Sourwolf?_ Stiles was only teasing. Couldn’t resist.  
  
 _Shut up, Stiles._ But Stiles could hear the glaring _yes_ behind the words.  
  
This perplexed him, and Stiles went quiet. Strangely, he wasn’t disturbed or afraid or disgusted by the idea of Derek being jealous over him. He’d already established the affection and the lust, so it was kind of really hot. He ran his fingers through Derek’s fur unconsciously as he thought.  
  
Scott broke this by snapping a twig on purpose. When they turned back around, Scott stood there as a dark brown-black wolf. His paws and ears were too big. A puppy. Stiles almost ‘aw’ed his best friend.  
  
Scott’s eyes shone amber and almost shy out of furry sockets.  
  
Derek made a chuffing noise and began to lead them away towards the Hale house. He picked a fast pace, but Stiles knew he could go faster if he wanted to. He was taking it easy on Scott. Relatively.  
  
 _He needs you to teach him how to control himself._ Stiles informed.  
  
 _I know._  
  
 _Can you?_  
  
 _I’ll try._ It sounded like a promise.  
  
Stiles bent in the saddle, laying down on his belly and watching the woods go by and feeling Derek move under him with heavy breaths and furiously working muscles. He briefly thought about having Derek moving under him in a completely different way and tried to shove those thoughts from his mind lest Derek get wind of them.  
  
 _Stay inside while I train with him._ Derek broke him out of his thoughts.  
  
 _Do you really think I’m going to do that?_  
  
 _No, but it was worth a try._  
  
 _Worth a try._ Stiles mused. _Let’s not try anymore. Let’s just do it._  
  
 _Cheesy. Do what?_ Stiles got a feeling that he wasn’t supposed to have heard that first word. He was starting to realize that sometimes unintentional things slipped through.  
  
 _Help Scott. Stop Peter. Be badasses._ Stiles mentally shrugged. Derek seemed to have even gotten that, despite it not being words.  
  
 _Sounds good._ Derek admitted.  
  
 _But I don’t want to hear anymore ‘tries’ from you. Got it? You_ can _actually do things, Derek._ Stiles encouraged.  
  
There was a bit of hesitation in Derek’s next step, and his ears flicked contemplatively.  
  
 _Okay. Let’s... Just do it._ Derek agreed. His emotion was unreadable, besides being positive.  
  
Stiles counted it as a win.  
  
They arrived at the Hale house, and Stiles had a sense that there was a silent conversation going on between Derek and Scott that Stiles had no idea about. He slipped off the saddle, taking it off of Derek and inside while the two began. Derek was a good teacher, even if he didn’t seem to have the personality for it. But Stiles was confident that Scott was in good hands. Paws. Whatever.  
  
He needed a moment, pausing inside to take in the familiar scent and sights of the house. This place felt just as much like home as his own house did. Not just because it was familiar. At the risk of sounding like a hippie, the vibe felt good here. Felt like Derek, as Stiles had gotten to know him.  
  
Stiles put the saddle in its usual place by the fireplace in the living room. He went out and checked on the wolves, who were blurs in the semi-darkness of the backyard. That got boring pretty fast, shockingly. Once the initial awesomeness wore off, and he realized that whatever they were still saying to each other he could neither hear nor understand, he shrugged off the doorframe and went back inside. Stiles checked the fridge- Derek was unsurprisingly out of sandwiches.  
  
Stiles got busy. He knew a thing or two now about teenage werewolf appetites, and he was never eager to disappoint. He made one of Derek’s favorite meals (as far as Stiles could tell- it wasn’t like Derek had ever actually told him about anything he liked in the way of food or books or music- Stiles had had had to piece it all together himself.)- lasagna. Stiles liked lasagna too- fun to make, messy to eat (sometimes) and Garfield liked it. And if you didn’t like Garfield, then you were obviously crazy.  
  
But lasagna, done right, takes a while. Stiles easily got bored again.  
  
Ergo, he began to make cookies.  
  
Scott, Mrs. McCall, and even the Sheriff _swore_ by Stiles’ cookies. Stiles just liked making things in the kitchen. Maybe he’d start a bakery or something. One that wasn’t anti-wolf and had signature Christmas cookies and Halloween treats and stuff. Maybe he’d go into business with Lydia- God knew she’d do it only to get free food and boss him around. If he managed to convince her at all. Scott might do it. But he couldn’t really cook or bake to save his life, so maybe Stiles would just stick him on cashier duty.  
  
Stiles was just thinking about what he’d call the place when he heard the front door open. He’d slid the first batch of peanut butter cookies into the oven already and was wiping his hands.  
  
“Did you smell the lasagna?” Stiles called. He didn’t care about having lasagna and cookies in the oven at the same time- he’d done it before and it had worked perfectly fine. So long as he’d kept an eye on them.  
  
“Oh, I did indeed.”  
  
That wasn’t Derek. Or Scott. Stiles froze in terror. While his mind was at a stand-still, his body kicked back into gear. He had a knife in his hand before he was even aware he’d moved, spinning to face Peter. Derek’s uncle was the same as when Stiles had last seen him- even his clothes were the same. Stiles tensed and didn’t say anything.  
  
“Calm down, kiddo. I just came to extend an offer to you.” Peter purred. “I gifted your friend with it- I’d bet you want the same.”  
  
Stiles gave the smallest shake of the head.  
  
“A shame.” Peter was getting closer. “You see, Derek’s being a little... _Hesitant_ to join my pack. Scott’s in it. You could be, still.” Peter smiled, deceptively benign. “Think of what you’d gain.”  
  
Strength, speed, senses, probably no more ADHD. Less panic attacks. Which was wonderful, but what would he lose? His dad, maybe. His ability to travel freely, unchecked by Hunters. Any sense of normalcy that he still retained.  
  
“ _No._ ” Stiles said firmly, fist tightening around the knife.  
  
Something dark crossed Peter’s face.  
  
“And even if I was, I’d side with Derek. Not you.”  
  
Peter lunged and Stiles thrusted with the knife. He got Peter before Peter got him, miraculously. Stiles could hardly believe it, but he managed to keep hold of the knife when Peter stumbled back. He held the rapidly healing stab wound in his stomach, snarling at Stiles. Stiles was already pressed against the counter. The only exit was behind Peter. If the wolf wanted him dead, it was probably going to happen. He just had to put up a good enough fight that Derek wouldn’t have to do much to finish Peter off.  
  
As it turned out, Stiles didn’t have to defend himself any longer. Peter dove for him again and got to scratch Stiles’ cheek in one long but shallow gash as Stiles jerked his head back. In that instant, Derek and Scott, oddly naked, appeared in the doorway. They were half-shifted, furry faces, eyes bright, claws extended. It would have been comical if Stiles wasn’t having the shit scared out of him. Derek was there faster than Stiles could follow, his hands around Peter’s throat, face twisted in a snarl as he dragged Peter back. Peter was clawing at his nephew, reaching behind himself, over his head, obviously going for Derek’s throat.  
  
But Derek kept himself well back, and Peter only managed to slash at his chest and shoulders and lower arms.  
  
“Scott-!” Derek barked.  
  
Scott was spurred into action, grabbing Stiles’ arm and trying to drag him out of the room. But Stiles felt rooted to the spot. He was terrified. For Derek. What if Peter got him? Despite the fact that Peter’s face was turning almost blue and he was spluttering from lack of air.  
  
Suddenly, Peter’s body went limp and his eyes rolled back.  
  
“Is he-?!” Stiles couldn’t finish his sentence.  
  
Derek wordlessly shook his head, took a better grip on Peter, and began to drag him back out of the house. Stiles numbly watched his ass has he left. It was a _great_ ass. No chance to ogle was wasted.  
  
Except the blood from Stiles’ cheek was starting to run down his neck and soak the collar of his shirt. He held onto the counter behind him, knife clattering to the floor. All of the air whooshed out of his lungs.  
  
“Go.” He managed to tell Scott. “Go help Derek. And get clothes.” He waved Scott off.  
  
He could hear the renewed fighting outside. Peter must have woken up. There was a whooshing and a crackling sound, faint through the walls but louder than the sound Stiles’ lungs had made. _Fire._  
  
Stiles scrambled to see, shutting off the oven as a reflex. He moved aside the living room curtain.  
  
Peter was _on fire._ Literally. He was howling in pain, clutching his head and body, clawing at himself as if that would help. Derek was keeping his distance, circling Peter. Watching. Waiting.  
  
Stiles couldn’t tear his eyes away. He watched as the fire on Peter died out at the tree line- he’d been trying to escape. Derek had followed. Stiles could barely see from the light of the moon and the light of the house, and he squinted as Derek rose an arm. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, and that was when Stiles noticed Scott outside, too.  
  
Derek brought his arm down violently.  
  
Stiles felt faint and gripped the windowsill until his knuckles went white.  
  
When Derek turned to face the house, his eyes were red. Peter was dead. Derek was alpha.  
  
Stiles slid to the floor, back to the wall. His heart was pounding in his throat, his blood rushing in his ears. He couldn’t see, couldn’t _breathe_. He made the smallest of sounds, panicking, curling his knees to his chest.  
  
He didn’t know why he was freaking out. All was supposed to be well now. Scott was fine and Derek was fine and Peter was dead, which was good for everybody in the end.  
  
Stiles didn’t know how much time passed. He never did when this was happening to him. But there were Derek and Scott, clean now and wearing pants. They were both crouched in front of him and it really wasn’t helping. He couldn’t even focus on them.  
  
“How do you calm him down?” Derek asked Scott, voice hard, and Scott realized, _concerned._ “Stiles?” His voice was soft.  
  
“Hug him. You have to-” Scott shut up. Derek was already moving.  
  
The bigger werewolf had his face set, determined, and slid his arms around Stiles’ back and around his knees. And then he was _actually picking Stiles up_ and _fuck fuck fuck_ still not helping. He was quickly deposited again, on the floor, but now Derek was behind him, his big legs framing Stiles in, a cloth in his hand that Stiles had no idea where it came from.  
  
Derek started gently wiping away the blood on his neck and cheek, pulling his shirt away from his skin. It stuck, but Stiles barely noticed. Derek was touching him. Derek was fucking _cleaning his battle wounds._ This had to be some kind of werewolf-y intimate thing because it certainly was for humans and if Stiles was getting mixed signals here and this was purely platonic, Derek better break his heart now and get it over with.  
  
Derek was whispering in his ear the whole time. Nonsense, as far as Stiles could tell. Just sounds. Scott looked embarrassed, but Derek’s face hadn’t changed the whole time. Stiles barely realized also that his heart was calming, his breathing was evening out. He could only concentrate on the places Derek touched him, the rough cloth gingerly wiping away the blood, Derek’s hands as he rearranged the cloth to a cleaner spot and began wiping again.  
  
Finally Stiles felt okay to speak again.  
  
“I think you need stitches.” Derek was gently poking at his cheek with his pointer finger, cloth still held in the same hand as he inspected with squinted eyes Stiles’ cut.  
  
“Then we should get me some of them.” Stiles was still dizzy. “But the lasagna. And the cookies. Gotta-” He tried to get up, but Derek’s hands held him down. “C’mon Sourwolf- do you want to starve tonight?” He was really, _really_ trying not to think about the body _in the front yard._  
  
A man who, not _fifteen minutes ago_ , was alive and very ready to commit murder all over Stiles.  
  
“No. But I don’t want you to pass out, either.” Derek snorted. “You’re staying here until you’re okay.”  
  
“... Fuck.” Stiles finally relaxed, looking up at Scott helplessly.  
  
Scott held up both hands, shaking his head. _Don’t look at_ me.  
  
Derek’s chest was warm and hard against his back, and Stiles was trying really hard to focus and not be as distracted as he definitely could be. Especially with Derek _taking care of him_ like this, it was easy to let himself believe that Derek was just as attracted to him as he was to Derek in that moment. But he didn’t say anything, and tried not to give any indication of exactly how achingly perfect he thought it would be if they kissed right now.  
  
Derek didn’t seem to notice anyway, more concerned with keeping Stiles’ cheek from bleeding and checking for any other bruises or cuts. Stiles insisted that there weren’t any, that he was fine, but Derek wasn’t taking his word for it. Business as usual, then.  
  
“My dad is _so_ going to kill me.” Stiles muttered.  
  
-=-  
  
In the end, Stiles was pretty disappointed that he didn’t even get a kiss out of the whole thing.  
  
-=-  
  
Okay, in hindsight, walking alone into a cave probably inhabited by a Rawhead was a bad, _bad_ idea. But you know what they say about hindsight. Stiles groaned, letting his head fall back as water dripped onto his forehead. Fucking caves. Fucking monsters. Why, _why_ did it have to be a Rawhead? The only research Stiles could really do on Rawheads was based on the movie _Rawhead Rex_ (which was not even very good, mind you) and that one Supernatural episode where Dean almost died. Again.  
  
Stiles didn’t follow that show religiously. Of course not.  
  
Anyway- not something to be thinking about right now. The Rawhead had left, but for how long?  
  
A lot had changed. A _lot_. Derek had gone a little nuts for a while, there was a pack of _Alphas_ that came to town, and Beacon Hills was up four werewolves. Five, if you counted Peter coming back to life. Which Stiles didn’t because that still sucked, no matter how less creepy the guy was.  
  
And Stiles was a part of that pack now. And Allison and Lydia- and Jackson wasn’t an ass anymore. Well, not as much of one.  
  
He needed to get out of here. Because no one knew where he was. No one had known he’d come here all alone. Stiles couldn’t remember why he’d done something stupid like that anyway- because this was stupid even on Stiles’ scale.  
  
He remembered promising himself that he’d observe from a distance. That he was only trying to get a feel for what the Rawhead was doing, if he was on any sort of schedule. Maybe they could create an ambush that way. But then... Then what?  
  
A pain in the back of his head told him that he’d been hit there. Now he was tied, wrists above his head, suspended from the ceiling of the cave. His toes just barely brushed the cave floor, and his arms were killing him. He didn’t know how long he’d been here, but he knew he was going to have to act fast. Rawheads were strong, swift, and almost completely invincible, aside from electricity. Obviously they were smart enough to save themselves a midnight snack. Stiles didn’t have much time before it came back.  
  
He had a knife. Except his knife was in his shoe (he’d thought it would be a last resort sort of thing, and it was only a Swiss army knife anyway) and Stiles couldn’t reach his shoe. Tugging at his wrists did nothing. It only hurt his arms more. He looked up, blinking away the water. Cave water. Stiles didn’t even know what time it was- he was too deep within the cave to be able to tell.  
  
Which reminded him. Even if he did get out of his bonds, how was he supposed to get out? He could already see about three different passages into the chamber he was in- which one was the right one? The Rawhead knew these tunnels. Stiles didn’t.  
  
He began to panic a little bit, but shoved it down, fighting against his bonds again. Stiles bit his lip, twisting, struggling. But there wasn’t anything he could do. Whatever held him stayed tight. The only source of light was a flashlight (he assumed) from behind him. Stiles didn’t want to turn around. Hikers had gone missing out here. Stiles knew what he would find, should he look.  
  
Growls and snarls met his ears, and Stiles went absolutely still, glancing at every entrance. The sounds echoed off the walls- he couldn’t tell which direction they came from. Nor could he tell if it was friend or foe- the Rawhead made some kind of interesting sounds, too.  
  
The sounds were getting louder, accompanied by a scraping noise. And then, when it seemed to be about to emerge into the light, it stopped. Just stopped. Stiles was holding his breath, heart pounding in his chest. But nothing happened. Not even when he hesitantly let out his lungful of air, or when he started to struggle again. There was nothing.  
  
And however long he’d stayed here, he was starting to get hungry. Stiles started to feel stretched and empty, in that sense. He didn’t think the pain in his shoulders could get any worse, but it was. He hoped somebody noticed he was gone soon, because otherwise, Stiles was afraid that he wasn’t going to last very long without becoming Rawhead-chow.  
  
Stiles only slept when he had to, when it was apparent that he was going to pass out whether he wanted to or not. If the Rawhead came, he never saw it. Sometimes he thought he saw it’s eyes, gleaming in the light of the flashlight from the entrance of one of the tunnels. But it never came closer, nor did it ever show any body parts. Stiles didn’t know whether to be more scared or to be relieved. Maybe a little of both.  
  
He lost track of time pretty easily, unable to check on his watch. And it was _cold_ in the cave. Colder than it should have been, for the middle of July. Then again, most caves were like that, Stiles reminded himself. A constant fifty or sixty degrees.  
  
It was better that he thought about facts like that instead of focusing on this predicament.  
  
The growling and dragging came every once in a while, but there was no way to tell time by it. Stiles eventually stopped getting worked up about it. There was no point, if nothing was going to happen. And he didn’t want to admit that it was getting to him. Once his head stopped hurting, (which took longer than Stiles had thought- he’d probably had a concussion or something. Unsurprising. Rawheads, as stated, were very strong.) Stiles tried to reach out to Derek.  
  
Nothing.  
  
 _Derek?_  
  
No reply. It didn’t even feel like he was getting anything across. Like they were just his own thoughts, bouncing around his head like usual. The necklace had become such a familiar weight around his neck that he didn’t notice the feeling of it, whether it was there or not.  
  
 _Derek?_  
  
Stiles felt an uncomfortable dread settle in his stomach. Had he lost the necklace? Was it gone? Or had the Rawhead broken it with its claws? Stiles rubbed his chin against his collarbone, the only way he could think of to feel the beads. It was still there. Had it lost its mojo, then? Could the ground interfere with that sort of thing, like an actual phone signal? Because Stiles had just been joking about that.  
  
 _Come on, Sourwolf, don’t leave me hanging like this. Geddit? Hanging? Okay so I guess you wouldn’t because you’re not actually here but that’s sort of the point. You need to_ get here _right now before I lose my mind. Which is, I might add, still a viable option right now._  
  
Maybe he thought babbling would suddenly make the connection start up again. Like if he wanted it hard enough, Derek would hear him. But it wasn’t working. Still just thoughts, bouncing around his head.  
  
Stiles started to lose hope.  
  
-=-  
  
The growling and dragging woke him. It went on for as long as it usually did (thirty-two seconds, to be exact) but this time it wasn’t stopping. The Rawhead was going to show itself. Stiles swallowed hard, weakly trying to twist his wrists. Futile- nothing happened.  
  
The Rawhead lumbered into view. It was big- really big. Nine feet, at least- it had to hunch over to move through the tunnels. Not that that seemed to bother it or hinder it in the least. Its skin was leathery and _looked_ thick, like an elephant’s. It looked almost human, with hair, and clothes. But it’s hands were stumpy, and it had claws. Yeah, _claws_. Long ones, and Stiles couldn’t take his eyes off of them for a long moment.  
  
The Rawhead’s eyes were clouded over, as if it were blind. Stiles knew better. It seemed to have found him well enough. It didn’t seem to notice him now, though. It walked by him, and Stiles had to hold his breath because _somebody really_ needed a tic-tac.  
  
He heard it moving behind him and tensed as much as he could, trying to brace himself for any pain that might follow. But he felt nothing. It was what he heard that made him shudder. Cracking, ripping, and then an even more horrible stench. Like something had been rotting, decaying, and had been broken open. Like a rotten egg.  
  
The hikers. Maybe the Rawhead liked it’s meat _really_ dead. _Really really_ dead.  
  
Stiles guessed that meant that he should be relieved- he still had time to figure out how to get through to Derek or how to get out of there. But he wasn’t. He just felt even more dismayed. What if the Rawhead ran out of dead food and decided to come after Stiles instead? There were too many ‘what if’s to ponder. He knew he shouldn’t be thinking about them. But he also couldn’t stop.  
  
The Rawhead didn’t leave when it was done. It just dragged itself to another part of the cavern and fell asleep. Or Stiles guessed that it was asleep- its eyes didn’t even close. But it laid down and stopped moving and stuff. Which was good enough for Stiles. He started to struggle again, but as quietly as he could, where before he hadn’t cared how much sound he made.  
  
 _Derek now would be a really good time for you to hear me because I’m really starting to freak out. That was the grossest thing I have ever half-witnessed, okay? Grosser than that time Erica and Isaac fought over the last taco. Do you even remember that? I think everybody tried to repress that memory and I don’t blame them, but that was one thing that I will never be able to un-see._  
  
Babbling made Stiles feel a little less crazy.  
  
Not that he was actually going crazy- he was pretty sure that it took a little bit longer than he’d been in here (even though it felt like forever) to _actually_ go crazy.  
  
The flashlight flickered and Stiles looked at the beam on the wall imploringly.  
  
“No, come on.” He whispered.  
  
It flickered again, stayed off longer.  
  
“No, no, _please_ no. Don’t do this to me.” He grimaced, watching, willing the flashlight not to run out of battery _now._  
  
The flashlight shut off and stayed off.  
  
“God damn it.” Stiles breathed, hanging his head. Just. His. Luck.  
  
Now he couldn’t see a damn thing. Not any way that he turned his head. It didn’t seem to matter if his eyes were open or shut- the scenery stayed the same.  
  
 _Derek, please._  
  
There was a sudden rush of warmth in Stiles’ chest that he was sure wasn’t his. Which left Derek. Emotions could come across the link, too. They’d figured that out a long time ago. Which meant Derek was close. Which meant Stiles was going to be saved. Stiles almost did a leap of victory. Mentally, of course, that definitely wasn’t happening in real life.  
  
 _Derek, come on, I know you’re in here somewhere. Please tell me that I’m not just imagining this. Because I wouldn’t put it passed myself._  
  
He had to wait a few seconds, but there came a faint-  
  
 _Where are you?_  
  
Stiles let out a soft whine of relief. The Rawhead was beginning to stir.  
  
 _Don’t know. Probably deep in the caves. It’s this huge room- it’s in here with me, okay? Sleeping or resting or something, so don’t just charge in. Please._  
  
He twisted his wrists again, trying to get free. Fruitless. Stiles knew that. But he couldn’t stop himself from trying.  
  
 _Stay put, Stiles. Close your eyes._ Derek’s voice was getting stronger, once more like he was actually in the room and speaking.  
  
 _Why?_  
  
 _Because it’s about to get very, very bright._  
  
 _Good enough for me._ Stiles squeezed his eyes shut, tucking his face into his arm.  
  
He could hear the very soft padding of paws, dozens of pawsteps, amplified by the cave acoustics. Stiles couldn’t tell if his heart was pounding now with relief or anxiety. He wasn’t that great at deciding which emotions he was having anymore, his head was too fuzzy for that. It wasn’t long before he heard the sounds of battle. He flinched as something (probably some _one_ ) brushed against his shins.  
  
It didn’t go on for long. There were several bright flashes of light that Stiles didn’t know where they’d come from, and a loud buzzing accompanied by a roar from the Rawhead. Stiles opened his eyes. He couldn’t help it.  
  
There were a few smoldering flares laying around the cave, a used flashbang, and Boyd was holding a taser, which had already been fired. It looked like it had been turned up to the maximum, and the Rawhead looked pretty fried. Stiles let out a shaky breath of relief, head nodding onto his chest.  
  
“Oh thank god.” He breathed.  
  
Derek was there in a second, nosing around Stiles’ legs and hips and stomach. Stiles would have laughed if he’d had the energy. He felt pretty boneless right now. Boyd came around and cut Stiles free, supporting him around the waist and lowering him slowly to the cave floor. It was damp and his ass was getting wet and Stiles didn’t care. Because Derek had come for him, the pack had come, he was safe.  
  
Derek licked his cheeks and neck and Stiles let him, fistbumping Boyd and keeping an arm around Derek’s neck so he didn’t fall backwards. They’d had more saddles made, so it appeared that Boyd had used one (considering he was still clothed) and everyone else was still a wolf. There was Scott, a dark form rippling in the shadows. Erica, light and creamy-colored with bright, mischievous eyes. She was light on her feet, too, but Stiles knew better. She was just as strong as Boyd.  
  
Isaac was hovering somewhere behind Derek, trying to peek over his shoulder, ears standing up straight. His fur was just as curly as his hair, especially around his neck and ankles. He was a sandy color, with brown speckles all down his back and tail. Jackson was sniffing at the Rawhead, dark limbs and belly and chin and throat and light on his back.  
  
Boyd helped Stiles up and onto Derek’s saddle, where he sort of had to lay down on his stomach to even stay on. Derek twisted his head back to lick at Stiles’ clothed knee. Stiles chuckled quietly, breathlessly, and curled his fingers in Derek’s fur. He wasn’t paying attention to the others as they started moving. Derek led them all up and out of the cave, into fresh air. Stiles took a deep, grateful lungful.  
  
 _You’re a god-damn dumbass, Stiles._  
  
 _I know. It’s one of my many charms._  
  
 _You do realize you could have_ died, _don’t you?!_  
  
 _I didn’t mean to get captured or anything. It was just going to be a quick look-see._ Stiles was too tired to get angry in return, even though he could feel Derek’s fury like a fire in the back of his skull.  
  
 _Stiles-!_ It seemed Derek was angry enough that even mentally he was at a loss for words, flabbergasted and spluttering in his rage.  
  
Stiles stroked Derek’s fur, resting his cheek on the warm leather of the saddle.  
  
 _No worries, Sourwolf. Can’t get rid of me that easy._  
  
 _Oh my god._ It was the sort of ‘oh my god’ that had an inaudible ‘I might actually rip your spine out’ behind it.  
  
 _Yep. Yep. I’m going to sleep now._  
  
 _You do that._ Derek growled out loud.  
  
 _Night, Dere-bear._  
  
 _I hate you._  
  
 _No you don’t._  
  
 _No. I don’t._  
  
But that didn’t matter because Stiles was already drifting.  
  
-=-  
  
He awoke in the guest room of the Hale house. Not exactly his room anymore, considering the fact that Erica, Boyd, and Isaac used it just as often as he did. Sometimes all four of them at the same time, when they were too tired to fight and just collapsed. Stiles was often in the middle, covered by Isaac, Erica and Boyd on either side. It had never been awkward or weird- it was just the way it was. and Isaac always slept better on those nights.  
  
But there wasn’t anyone in the room now. Stiles sat up with a groan, his stomach _roaring_ for food, completely surpassing the growling stage. He almost vaulted out of bed at that point, ignoring how much his back was killing him and how much his hips were protesting any sort of movement ever again in favor of making it down to the kitchen. He bypassed the pack in the living room, yanking open the fridge.  
  
“Food food food food-” He muttered.  
  
“Stiles!” He recognized Allison’s voice and held up a ‘one second’ sign over his shoulder before continuing his rummaging.  
  
That was the only way this pack was allowed to exist. The Hunters had to have a part in everything they did. Even if it might come in the form of Allison. It was okay- a comfortable truce. So long as nobody got slaughtered, all was good.  
  
“Victory is _mine_.” He hissed, pulling out cold fried chicken. No damns given here. Not one. Or fucks.  
  
Stiles took those, a few sticks of celery he was pretty sure belonged to Erica but he would dare to bet his life on were safe to eat, and two cans of Dr. Pepper. Finally he made it to the living room, plopping down by the coffee table and digging in. Nothing had tasted more heavenly. Ever.  
  
He only started caring that everyone was staring at him when he’d finished the chicken and a can of soda, but he wasn’t about to stop.  
  
All in all, he made three trips to the fridge. Chicken, celery, soda, pizza, and three chocolate bars that Lydia was going to kill him later about. He’d just spent the last who-knew-how-long in a cave. He deserved it. Totally.  
  
When he’d finally finished, Stiles curled up on the couch and looked around at everyone else, finally satisfied. In fact, he could probably go back to sleep right about now.  
  
“So what’d I miss?” He chirped. Like he’d been on vacation in the Caribbean.  
  
“A _couple of days_ is what you missed.” Scott looked astounded. “You better start drinking some water before Derek gets down here or he’s going to be _pissed_.”  
  
“You mean he’s not already?” Stiles was joking. It didn’t look like anyone else was. “Okay, okay, _fine_.”  
  
He went back to the fridge and grabbed two water bottles, curling up again and starting to nurse one. It felt good to be hydrated again- a few drops of cave water every few seconds had not been cutting it.  
  
They didn’t have to wait long for Derek to make an appearance. He soon came down the stairs looking like he hadn’t slept in the ‘couple of days’ that Stiles had been missing. He took one look at everyone in the living room and there seemed to be some kind of silent communication there before everyone was clearing out. They all hugged Stiles before they left- even Jackson. Although his hug was more flighty than everyone else’s. Stiles didn’t blame him.  
  
When everyone was gone, Derek came and sat on the couch next to Stiles. He looked like he was about to say something, so Stiles was quiet and let him have time to word it. He started picking at the labels to his water bottles, including the one he had yet to drink from. Finally, Derek spoke.  
  
“Do you even know how worried I was?” He sounded like he was greatly restraining himself. Stiles definitely hadn’t been expecting that.  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“Do you even-”  
  
“No, I know what you said. I just- What do you mean, you were worried?” Stiles turned, crossing his legs Indian style as he watched Derek’s profile.  
  
“I mean that you almost died, I had no idea where you were, and you weren’t answering.” Derek tapped his own temple, looking at Stiles with that weird gaze he had that made Stiles feel like he could see down to Stiles’ _soul._  
  
“I tried calling for you. You weren’t picking up either.” Stiles grumbled, looking down at his lap.  
  
“What happened, Stiles? Why would you go out there like that?” Derek didn’t _sound_ angry. Or confused. He kind of sounded like Stiles’ dad did, with genuine concern for whether Stiles lived or died.  
  
It made Stiles want to be honest.  
  
“I just- Fuck, I don’t know.” Stiles rubbed the back of his neck, feeling fidgety with Derek’s gaze on him. “I wanted to be useful. All I ever do anymore is research and-” He broke off with a shrug.  
  
“So you felt like you had to prove yourself?”  
  
“No. Yes. Maybe.” Stiles shook his head. “Does it even matter? The Rawhead is dead, nobody else is going to die. Can we just drop it?”  
  
“No, Stiles! We can’t just drop it! Especially if you’re going to go out there again against some other creature and get yourself killed next time!” Derek was on his feet now, gesturing wildly with his hands. Something he only did when he was really angry. Not to the point of _I will soon kill things_ though.  
  
Stiles liked that Derek always called them creatures. They were never monsters to him. That worried Stiles, though. Because if Derek didn’t think that bloodthirsty disgusting ugly creepy-crawlies were the monsters, then what was?  
  
“There won’t be a next time, then!” Stiles stood, the water bottles (thankfully closed) bouncing on the floor. “I _won’t_ be a part of this if I _can’t_ be a part of this!”  
  
He was struggling with the necklace, trying to get it off, but before he knew it Derek had grabbed his wrists and was kissing him.  
  
Derek was kissing him.  
  
Stiles blinked, going still and surprised. Derek’s brow was furrowed, like he was either concentrating extremely hard, or like he was constipated.  
  
 _Derek? You’re kissing me._  
  
 _I know. Shut up._  
  
Stiles did.  
  
When Derek finally pulled away, they were both breathless. It had only been a press of lips, but that didn’t matter to Stiles. Nor did it seem to matter to Derek at all, judging by the look on his face. Stiles was a little dazed, and fairly certain that the only thing holding him up right now was that Derek had a grip on his wrists. His hands were still closed around the necklace, but now he let go.  
  
Derek wasn’t looking at him. Apparently the floorboards had become extremely interesting.  
  
“You. We just- Holy shit.” Stiles said faintly.  
  
“You _matter_ , Stiles.” Derek growled. “Don’t you _dare_ do that again.” Derek finally let Stiles go, and he wobbled in place before sitting down on the couch once more.  
  
Derek bent, grabbing his water bottles and thrusting them back at him.  
  
“Drink.”  
  
“But we just-”  
  
“I _know_ , Stiles. I was there. _Drink_.”  
  
Derek watched him to make sure that he finished as much of the water as possible (a bottle and a half) before being satisfied enough to let Stiles relax on the couch.  
  
“So what does my dad think?” Stiles asked, looking over at Derek nervously.  
  
Only nervous because now he had _no fucking clue_ where they stood. Derek seemed to be in much the same place, sitting in an armchair across from Stiles on the other side of the coffee table, book unopened on his lap.  
  
“He knows exactly where you were. In a Rawhead’s cave.” Derek glared. Stiles looked away.  
  
“I should call him then. Go home.”  
  
“Yes, you probably should.”  
  
Stiles got up the same time as Derek did.  
  
“I’ll just. Use my cell, then.” He’d left it on the counter and it appeared to be untouched.  
  
Before he could even reach for it, Derek was in front of him. Stiles forgot how _fast_ werewolves were. Derek’s arms were around his waist, and their lips were together again. Stiles wasn’t even fazed this time. He wrapped his arms around Derek’s neck tightly, making a small needy noise and holding on for dear life. If Stiles had known that being captured and starved by a Rawhead would have gotten him _this_ , he would have done it sooner.  
  
Stiles curled his fingers in Derek’s hair, tugging, trying to keep him from pulling away because this was a _good_ thing, dammit. A really good thing. Derek seemed to get the point, because he soon had Stiles pressed up against the nearest wall in a completely aggressive and totally desirable way. Stiles had never, ever done anything like this before and that was somehow okay.  
  
“Mn- Derek- fuck-” Stiles gasped when they broke apart, leaning his head back and closing his eyes, mouth dropping open as Derek bit down hard on his throat with human teeth- human teeth- that was the important part.  
  
Because wouldn’t it just be bittersweet if Stiles turned while they were having sex? Or making out, depending upon how far this got.  
  
Didn’t matter. Derek had moved his hands to Stiles’ ass and was grinding against him and _fuck_ if that just wasn’t the best thing in the whole wide world. Stiles gasped and moaned, doing his best to move with Derek. It wasn’t easy, but it was manageable.  
  
“Derek- bed- _now_ , _please_.” Stiles asked, putting separate emphasis on his words.  
  
“Yeah- yeah, okay.” Derek sounded as far gone as Stiles felt.  
  
And before Stiles had any chance to process, Derek had scooped him up. Bridal style. Stiles yelped and tightened his arms around Derek’s neck, adjusting to the new position. Derek wasn’t even looking as he went upstairs. Stiles knew this because Derek’s face was buried in his neck. And Stiles was okay with that, even if Derek wasn’t doing much else except breathing him in. Stiles recognized it as a werewolf-y need for reassurance.  
  
He stroked Derek’s hair as Derek shouldered open his bedroom door, biting his lip with repressed excitement. He thought Derek would toss him on the bed, let him bounce, judging by the intense kissing that had been happening downstairs, but Derek was gentle; laying him down like Stiles was made of porcelain. And not in the ‘you’re human you’re weak’ way. Like Stiles was the most precious thing in the world and Derek _had_ to treat him that way. Just because.  
  
Stiles flushed with the thought, curling his fingers into Derek’s shirt to bring him closer as Derek laid himself over top of him. Their lips came together again in one of those wet, sloppy kisses you only saw in movies. The ones that looked really gross. Stiles would like to attest that they were actually extremely pleasurable, thankyouverymuch. Especially ones from Derek. They were going straight to his dick.  
  
Stiles bucked his hips up just as Derek seemed to get the same idea and ground his hips down and Stiles could have sworn that there were stars, actual, bona-fide _stars_ behind his eyelids.  
  
“Derek- Derek, fuck, please-”  
  
“I know, I know, me too.”  
  
Derek kissed lower, down Stiles’ jaw, eyes closed. Stiles was vibrating with pleasure and excitement. This was actually happening. Not a dream, not a hallucination, that was Derek’s _actual cock_ pressing against his thigh. Derek wanted this just as much as Stiles did. And fuck if that didn’t just amplify things by a billion and three times.  
  
Derek was tugging at the hem of his t-shirt and Stiles didn’t resist, throwing his arms above his head and letting Derek tug his shirt up and over. Stiles didn’t even notice the ache in his joints and his back. Too much attention was being given to a certain area below the belt. Or not enough, depending upon how he chose to look at it.  
  
Suddenly, Stiles wasn’t looking or thinking about _anything_. Not with the way Derek was sucking on his neck and across his collarbone, down his sternum and to his nipples, leaving dark bruises the whole way. Stiles didn’t even know how Derek’s back _did_ that, let him keep grinding against Stiles as he gave attention to the other’s chest, too.  
  
Stiles was clawing at Derek’s back and probably babbling, too, not that he could even hear himself right now. Derek didn’t seem to care, either- in fact he was probably enjoying it, judging by the hums he let out every once in a while.  
  
Stiles could take the nipple play. He’d done that to himself when the whimsy took him. But what really got him for some irrational reason was when Derek found a place right below his belly button and sucked _hard_. He came violently, hips jerking up and a shout of Derek’s name falling from his lips.  
  
Derek pulled back, licking his lips and looking very satisfied with himself as he rolled his hips lazily against Stiles’, looking down at the other with the biggest shit-eating grin on his face that Stiles had ever seen ever. It didn’t help that Derek’s hair was all messed up from the manhandling it had been dealt and his jacket and shirt were riding up in all of the wrong ( _right_ ) places.  
  
“Shut up.” Stiles gasped. “So not fair. You didn’t even- ngh- take off your shirt.” He swallowed. “Off. Everything off right now.”  
  
Derek rumbled a laugh, something Stiles could definitely get used to hearing, especially in bed, and wrestled momentarily with his jacket. Stiles couldn’t do much but watch as he pulled off his shirt, too, too boneless to move. Derek had his lower arms still tangled in his shirt when Stiles found the strength to raise his hands, smoothing them over Derek’s chest and down his stomach and those perfect abs.  
  
Derek shuddered in a way that looked almost painful in the best sense and went still, head bowing as Stiles explored skin he’d never thought he’d be able to touch. Derek’s back arched into his hands when on a sudden urge, Stiles raked his nails down Derek’s chest. Stiles would have to remember that. He levered himself up, wrapping an arm around Derek’s lower back to tug him closer so Stiles could kiss the angry red marks as they faded on Derek’s skin.  
  
Derek let out a breath that he seemed to have been holding, and Stiles smiled up at him. Derek finally tossed away his shirt, running his fingers through Stiles’ hair, scratching at the base of his neck in _just that way_. Stiles fell back again and it was a little awkward now because they were both trying to take off the other’s pants at the same time, but they managed it without any stitches being pulled and no denim was ripped. Stiles called it a victory.  
  
Derek ignored the mess that was in Stiles’ boxers. Stiles was grateful for that. But what he wasn’t expecting was for Derek to back up off the bed and drag Stiles towards him until his knees dangled off the matress. Stiles levered himself up on his elbows to look questioningly over at Derek when Derek promptly leaned over and began to lick Stiles clean.  
  
Stiles honestly began to think it was possible for a human being to die from pleasure.  
  
He was also hard again in record time. Stiles was a teenage boy- the only thing he had going for him was a healthy libido, not stamina. Which Derek obviously had, judging by the fact that he had not come yet even once, and here Stiles was working on round two.  
  
“Derek, Derek, please, enough- hah- enough teasing, c’mon, _please_ , _need you_.” Stiles wasn’t above begging for what he wanted.  
  
It seemed to work perfectly on Derek, anyway, especially when Stiles lifted his chin and tilted his head away, lowering his eyes and thought very submissive thoughts. _That_ drove Derek _nuts._ Stiles thought it was both endearing and extremely sexy. He promised himself to use this power for good and maybe only a little evil before thinking was once again _not a thing_. He scrambled backwards to be fully on the bed again at Derek’s gentle touches.  
  
Stiles noticed the tube of lube in Derek’s hand and nodded. That was okay with him- he wanted this. Despite the fact that he was now really nervous. Because he was still a virgin. What if he wasn’t any good and Derek didn’t want that? He knew he didn’t exactly _look_ the part. He couldn’t hold a candle to Derek.  
  
Even though Derek was looking at him like the most delicious thing he’d ever seen and he was about to devour Stiles until absolutely nothing was left. Stiles didn’t have a problem with that, either.  
  
But-  
  
 _Stiles. Stop thinking._  
  
Derek’s voice was gentle in his mind, urging in a softly pushing sort of way. Stiles relaxed.  
  
 _Sorry. Nervous._  
  
 _I know._ There was an un-spoken (un-thought?) ‘me too’.  
  
Which was ridiculous because there was no way that someone like Derek could be nervous about something like this with someone like Stiles. It just wasn’t a thing.  
  
Apparently their thought-talking had covered up the sound of the lube opening, because Stiles hadn’t noticed a thing and yet Derek’s slick fingers were rubbing against Stiles’ hole. He sucked in a breath and held it for a moment before Derek just _looked_ at him, and he was relaxing. Derek pushed in a finger, rocking it in and out of Stiles, deeper each time. It didn’t hurt, exactly. Stiles had done this to himself before, too, but it was entirely different when someone else was doing it. It burned, but he could handle it.  
  
Derek added another finger, kissing Stiles and it was only a little sloppy, more reassuring than anything else. Stiles still groped for his hair and held him there, uncaring about the beard burn he was sure to have all over his chin and neck and chest. Now it hurt, just a little. Not as much as hanging in a Rawhead’s cave had hurt his shoulders.  
  
Which, by the way, he could feel no pain from still. Stiles soon began to rock down on Derek’s fingers, meeting them as they curled inside of him, scissoring and _wow_ that felt weird. But good weird. Stiles whined as Derek slid in a third finger, folding all three together and _twisting_ them. And then he _hit_ something and what Stiles saw far surpassed stars. He moaned loudly, back arching, hands tightening involuntarily in Derek’s hair as pleasure ripped up and down his spine.  
  
Derek pulled his fingers out soon after that, much to Stiles’ disappointment. He whined, looking at Derek imploringly because there were _no words_ for how much he wanted this man right now.  
  
Derek ducked in to kiss him again. Stiles didn’t have to have the connection the necklace gave them to hear the _it’s okay, I’ve got you_ behind it. Stiles broke the kiss to breathe and noticed Derek’s arm moving- oh god yes, Stiles wanted to _see_ that. He pushed at Derek’s shoulders, and was that a blush he saw? Didn’t matter, Derek had pulled back enough that Stiles could see him stroking himself. Stiles’ mouth watered and he let out a soft moan.  
  
“That. In me. Now.” His tone left no room for arguments as he spread his legs, giving Derek look that was more demanding than anything else now.  
  
Derek could only nod, keeping his hand on himself to guide himself in. And then he was pushing in and Stiles realized that Derek’s cock was a lot bigger than his fingers, no matter what way you put it. He whimpered and grabbed Derek’s shoulders, his chest heaving as he fought to bring in air. Derek distracted him, grabbing his hands and lacing their fingers together, pinning them above Stiles' head and kissing him deeply. Like he was trying to memorize every part of Stiles’ mouth with just his tongue.  
  
Stiles couldn’t even try to jerk his hips away from the pain, even though that was his instinct, because Derek was just so _big_. All of him. Around, above, _in_ Stiles.  
  
And then Derek was all the way in and Stiles felt like he’d been punched in the gut, all of the air whooshing out of his lungs. He buried his face in Derek’s throat, making a soft sound that he wasn’t sure what it was supposed to mean.  
  
Derek smoothed his thumbs up and down the sides of Stiles’ hands.  
  
“Tell me.” He murmured. “When it doesn’t hurt anymore.”  
  
His voice sounded strained, like it was just as hard for him to hold back on the thrusting as it was for Stiles to adjust. The minute or so they spent just lying there, breathing each other’s air, listening to each other’s heartbeats, was indeed well spent.  
  
“It’s- I’m okay.” Stiles gasped. “You can move. Just- slow, please.” He begged.  
  
Derek nodded wordlessly, kissing the place under Stiles’ ear as he started to roll his hips. Slow, shallow. Exactly what Stiles needed to get used to the burn and stretch. Derek picked up the pace gradually, until he had Stiles moaning and writhing under him, half-words and Derek’s name the only things he could force out of his mouth. And that was just fine with the werewolf.  
  
It was hard to hold back from coming for Derek. Stiles was tight and warm and perfect, and the way he looked, with Derek’s marks all over him, completely flushed so you couldn’t tell what was beard burn and what was blood coming to the surface under his skin. And all _Derek’s_.  
  
“Mine.” He whispered in Stiles’ ear. “You’re _mine_.”  
  
“Yours- yours, yeah, Derek- please, please pleaseplease Derek, yours, please-” Derek doubted that Stiles even knew what he was saying- there was look in his eye that practically screamed half-mad with lust. But that was okay. Because even with the hard pounding of Stiles’ heart due to the pleasure, Derek could hear the truth in those words.  
  
“Please what, Stiles?” He asked, not patronizing. “What do you want?” He had no idea how the hell he had such a steady voice when Stiles was so wrecked, because Derek felt the same way.  
  
“Want you- want to come, please, Derek, touch me, need you- please-” Stiles broke off in a whine as Derek pounded his prostate.  
  
“No.” Derek grinned.  
  
Stiles made a frustrated, disbelieving noise, back arching desperately.  
  
“You’re going to come, don’t worry, Stiles, wouldn’t leave you like that-” Derek reassured, thrusting harder. “But you’re going to do it just from this.” He growled. Because he knew how much Stiles liked that. “Just from my voice, from my cock.” He bit down lightly on the tendons in Stiles’ neck because they were standing out.  
  
Stiles gave a strangled, achingly beautiful moan. His hips moved with Derek’s with new fervor, and Derek only helped him along with that. It took longer than Derek knew it would have if he’d used his hand on Stiles but that was okay, because he could also tell that when he did come, it hit Stiles like a fucking _freight train_.  
  
“De-REK!” Stiles yelped, his body jackknifing.  
  
Derek let go of his hands in favor of wrapping his arms around the hollow of Stiles’ back. Stiles’ arms went once more around his neck.  
  
“Stiles-” Derek breathed.  
  
Because he was coming, too, hips jerking as Stiles tightened around him, his eyes unfocusing and jaw dropping open. Nothing had ever felt more perfect. Nothing had ever been so _right_. It was like a missing puzzle piece of the _world_ had slotted into place. Eventually they both went still, holding onto each other and trembling. Stiles felt boneless, but his grip around Derek’s neck was fierce.  
  
When they could finally bring themselves to roll apart, Derek to the side closest to the pillows and Stiles to the side closest to the foot of the bed, Stiles’ brain seemed to have caught up with events.  
  
“Where’s the- we didn’t break the- did we?” He smelled like panic.  
  
“The necklace? I took it off with your shirt.” Derek waved him off, his eyes still closed because right now he could sleep for _eons_.  
  
“Then we- Derek we spoke without it. Why are you not excited about this?! We don’t need it anymore!”  
  
“I know.” Derek could see Stiles’ arms waving about as shadows on his eyelids. Leave it to Stiles to have that much energy after their first time.  
  
“You are insufficiently exuberant, my furry friend.”  
  
“Is that all we are?” Derek’s eyes flashed open.  
  
“What?! No, no! I mean- unless you want that to be all.” Stiles suddenly looked positively ashamed, sitting up on the side of the bed. knees close together, hands twisting in his lap like he’d forgotten their basic function.  
  
“No, I don’t want that to be all.” Derek rolled onto his side, wrapping an arm around Stiles’ waist and dragging him close. “I want more. The wolf wants more.”  
  
“Oh.” Stiles’ whole face was flushed. Derek prided himself that he’d been able to make _Stiles_ speechless.  
  
“We’ll talk in the morning.” Derek promised, rising and nosing Stiles’ cheek.  
  
He planted a kiss there before going to the bathroom and retrieving a cloth to clean them both up with. He tossed it away after he was done, stripping the ruined comforter off the bed (he’d tell the dry cleaner it was ice cream. Yep. Because that was believable and nobody had already heard it a billion times) and urging Stiles under the blanket.  
  
He took the side closest to the door, spooning Stiles with his nose buried in the other’s hair.  
  
 _Night, Dere-bear._ Came the quiet thought, accompanied by a yawn.  
  
 _Good night, Stiles._

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by my lovely friend, CaptainStilinski (many, MANY thanks to her), who kept me working throughout the whole thing. Also, elements taken from this picture: http://padfoot36.deviantart.com/art/Dark-forest-334353981
> 
> It was really fun to work on and became longer than I thought it would ever be. I hope y'all like it! ^^;;


End file.
